University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


POEMS 


CHILDHOOD. 

• 


'  0  !  dear  to  memory  are  those  hours 
When  every  pathway  led  to  flowers." 


BOSTON: 

GEORGE     COOLIDGE, 

13   TRRMONT  Row, 

1861. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860, 

BY    GEORGE    COOLIJGK, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


Elecfcrotyped  at  the 

BOSTON    STEREOTYPE    FO 


T>amri>ll  &  Moore,  Printers,  Boston. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


CHILDHOOD. 

"  In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse 
Upon  the  days  gone  by ;  to  act  in  thought 
Past  seasons  o'er,  and  be  again  a  child." 

BLEST  hour  of  childhood ;  there,  and  there  alone, 
Dance  we  the  revels  close  round  Pleasure's  throne ; 
Quaff  the  bright  nectar  from  the  fountain  springs, 
And  laugh  beneath  the  rainbow  of  her  wings. 
O !  time  of  promise,  hope,  and  innocence, 
Of  trust,  and  love,  and  happy  ignorance, 
When  every  dream  is  heaven,  in  whose  fair  joy 
Experience  yet  has  thrown  no  sad  alloy ; 
Whose  pain,when  fiercest,  lacks  the  venomed  pang, 
Which  to  maturer  ill  doth  oft  belong, 
When  mute,  and  cold,  we  weep  departed  bliss, 
And  Hope  expires  on  broken  happiness. 

(3) 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

SPORTING  through  the  forest  wide  ; 
Playing  by  the  water  side ; 
Wandering  o'er  the  heathy  fells  ; 
Down  within  the  woodland  dells  j 
All  among  the  mountains  wild, 
Dwelleth  many  a  little  child  ! 
In  the  baron's  hall  of  pride ; 
By  the  poor  man's  dull  fireside  : 
'Mid  the  mighty,  'mid  the  mean, 
Little  children  may  be  seen, 
Like  the  flowers  that  spring  up  fair, 
Bright  and  countless  every  where  ! 
In  the  far  isles  of  the  main  ; 
In  the  desert's  lone  domain  j 
In  the  savage  mountain- glen, 
'Mong  the  tribes  of  swarthy  men  ; 
Wheresoe'er  a  foot  hath  gone  ; 
Wheresoe'er  the  sun  hath  shone 
On  a  league  of  peopled  ground, 
Little  children  may  be  found  ! 
Blessings  on  them !  they  in  me 
Move  a  kindly  sympathy  — 
With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears  ; 
With  their  laughter  and  their  tears  ; 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

With  their  wonder  so  intense, 
And  their  small  experience  ! 
Little  children,  not  alone 
On  the  wide  earth  are  ye  known, 
'Mid  its  labors  and  its  cares, 
'Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares  ; 
Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife, 
In  the  world  of  love  and  life, 
Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod  — 
In  the  presence  of  your  God, 
Spotless,  blameless,  glorified  — 
Little  children,  ye  abide  ! 

Mary  Howitt. 


ROSY-CHEEKED  APPLES. 

COME  here,  my  bairnie, 

Come  here  to  me  ; 
Rosy-cheeked  apples 

You  shall  have  three. 
All  full  of  honey 

They  dropped  from  the  tree  — 
Like  your  bonny  self, 

All  the  sweeter  that  they're  wee. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Come  here,  my  bairnie, 

Nor  shake  your  fair  head ; 
You  are  like  my  own  bairn, 

Long  — long- dead. 
Ah  !  for  lack  of  nourishment 

He  dropped  from  the  tree— 
Like  your  bonny  self, 

All  the  sweeter  he  was  wee  ! 

O  !  old,  frail  folk 

Are  like  old  fruit-trees ; 
They  cannot  stand  the  gnarl 

Of  the  cold  winter  breeze. 
But  heaven  takes  the  fruit, 

Though  earth  forsake  the  tree; 
And  we  mourn  our  fairy  blossoms, 

All  the  sweeter  that  they're  wee. 

Come  here,  my  bairnie, 

Come  here  to  me ; 
Rosy-cheeked  apples 

You  shall  have  three. 
All  so  full  of  honey 

They  dropped  from  the  tree  — 
Like  your  bonny  self, 

All  the  sweeter  they  are  wee. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE    MADONNA. 

"  I  WISH  I  were  a  picture," 

Said  a  prattling  little  boy ; 
"  For  a  picture  is  so  beautiful, 

And  its  face  so  full  of  joy. 
There  is  a  pretty  lady 

In  the  parlor  of  mamma, 
With  a  ribbon  blue  upon  her  head, 

And  upon  her  breast  a  star. 

»  And  she  ever  smiles  so  sweetly, 

And  her  soft  eyes  are  so  blue, 
That  I  wish  when  I  look  on  her 

I  might  be  a  picture  too. 
She  is  never  sad  like  others, 

For  she  smiles  when  people  die ; 
And  she  never  seems  to  hear  it 

When  the  funeral  goes  by. 

"  Her  blue  bright  eyes  are  beaming, 

And  each  seems  a  little  dream 
Of  the  violet  reflected 

In  the  silence  of  a  stream. 
And  she  always  is  so  happy, 

Though  the  saddest  things  occur, 
That  I  wish  I  were  a  picture, 

In  a  pretty  frame  like  her. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

"  I  wonder  if  a  picture 

Ever  thinks  thoughts  of  its  own  ? 
If  it  smiles  so  very  sweetly, 

When  we  leave  it  all  alone. 
If  it  knows  it  is  a  picture, 

While  we  are  speaking  thus  ; 
But  O,  it  is  too  beautiful 

To  wish  to  be  like  us." 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

SI&HING,  I  see  yon  little  troop  at  play, 

By  sorrow  yet  untouched,  unhurt  by  care, 
While  free  and  sportive  they  enjoy  to-day, 

"  Content  and  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare." 
O,  happy  age !  when  Hope's  unclouded  ray 

Lights  their  green  path,  and  prompts  their  sim 
ple  mirth, 

Ere  yet  they  feel  the  thorns  that  lurking  lay 
To  wound  the  wretched  pilgrims  of  the  earth, 
Making  them  rue  the  hour  that  gave  them  birth, 

And  threw  them  on  a  world  so  full  of  pain, 
Where  prosperous  folly  treads  on  patient  worth, 

And  to  deaf  pride  misfortune  pleads  in  vain  ! 
Ah  !  for  their  future  fate  how  many  fears 
Oppress  my  heart,  and  fill  mine  eyes  with  tears. 
Charlotte  Smith. 


POEMS^  OF   CHILDHOOD.  9 

CHILDREN  AT  PLAY. 

SPORT  on ;  sport  on  ; 

A  mother's  thought,  shadow  of  heavenly  love, 
Dwells  on  you.     In  her  home,  'mid  household 

cares, 

Kindle  up  hopes,  which,  deep  in  its  soft  folds, 
Her  inmost  soul  has  wrapped.  She  musing-  asks, 
"  What  his  high  fate,  that  boy  with  eagle  eye, 
And   well-knit    limbs,    and    proud    impetuous 

thought  ? 

A  patriot,  leading  men,  and  breathing  forth 
His  warm  soul  for  his  country  ?  or  a  bard, 
With  holy  song  refining  earth's  cold  ear  ? 
A  son,  holding  the  torch  of  love  to  age 
As  its  closed  eye  turns  dimly  to  the  grave  ? 
Or  husband,  wrapping,  with  protecting  arms, 
One  who  leans  on  him  in  her  trusting  youth  ?  " 
"  And  for  those  girls,"  she  asks,  "  what  gentlo 

fate 

Lies  cradled  on  the  softest  down  of  time  ? 
A  rosy  lot  must  garland  out  their  years  — 
Those  sunny  eyes,  with  laughing  spirits  wild, 
Those  rounded  limbs  are  all  unfit  for  Avant, 
Or  sterner  care.    Gently  will  they  be  borne 
On  beds  of  flowers,  beneath  an  azure  sky." 
O  dreams,  fair  dreams !     God's  dower  to  wo 
man's  heart  ! 

Your  light  and  waving  curtains  still  suspend 
Before  the  future,  which  lies  dark  behind. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


A  PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  INFANT  SON. 

THOU  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop —  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear)  — 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself  ! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear)  — 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  ! 

With  spirits  feather  light, 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  — 
(Good  heavens  !  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck  ; 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air  ! 
(The  door !   the  door !    he'll  tumble   down  the 
stair  ! ) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire  ! ) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link ! 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  —  (Stop  the  boy  ! 

There  goes  my  ink ! ) 

Thou  cherub —  but  of  earth  ! 
Fit  playfellow  for  fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth. 
(The  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  his  tail ! ) 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing1  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble  — that's  his  precious  nose  ! ) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He'll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  ! ) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature's 

mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ? ) 


Thou  young  domestic  love  ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  off  with  another  shove ! ; 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ? ; 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  —  that's  his  plan  ! ) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He's  got  a  knife  ! ) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing ; 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball  —  bestride  the  stick  ; 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  ! ) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle  down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb -like  frisk  ! 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  !; 


12  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Thou  pretty  opening-  rose  ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  ! ) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  ! ) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar  ! ) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove  — 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above  ! ) 

Hood. 


HOW  LIKE   HIS  FATHER! 

BEHOLD,  my  lords,  although  the  print  be  little, 

the  whole  matter 

And  copy  of  the  father :  eye,  nose,  lip, 
The  trick  of  his  frown,  his  forehead ;  nay,  the 

valley, 
The  pretty  dimples  of  his  chin,  and  cheek ,  his 

smiles ; 
The  very  mould  of  hand,  nail,  finger. 

Shakspeare. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  13 


MOUNTAIN  CHILDREN. 

DWELLERS  by  lake  and  hill, 
Merry  companions  of  the  bird  and  bee, 

Go  gladly  forth  and  drink  of  joy  your  fill, 
With  unconstrained  step  and  spirit  free. 

No  crowd  impedes  your  way  ; 
No  city  wall  proscribes  your  further  bounds  ; 

Where  the  wild  flocks  can  wander,  ye  may  stray 
The  long  day  through,  mid  summer  sights  and 
sounds. 

The  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 
And  the  old  trees  that  cast  a  solemn  shade  , 

The  pleasant  evening,  the  fresh,  dewy  hours, 
And  the  green  hills  whereon  your  fathers  played  : 

The  gray  and  ancient  peaks, 
Round  which  the  silent  clouds   hang   day  and 

night ; 

And  the  low  voice  of  water,  as  it  makes, 
Like  a  glad  creature,  murmurings  of  delight ; 

These  are  your  joys.    Go  forth, 
Give  your  hearts  up  unto  their  mighty  power  ; 

For  in  his  spirit  God  has  clothed  the  earth, 
And  speaks  in  love  from  every  tree  and  flower. 


14  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

The  voice  of  hidden  rills 
Its  quiet  way  into  your  spirit  finds  ; 
And  awfully  the  everlasting-  hills 
Address  you  in  their  many-toned  winds. 

Ye  sit  upon  the  earth 
Twining  its  flowers,  and  shouting,  full  of  glee  ; 

And  a  pure,  mighty  influence,  'mid  your  mirth, 
Moulds  your  unconscious  spirit  silently. 

Hence  is  it  that  the  lands 
Of  storm  and  mountain  have  the  noblest  sons  ; 

Whom  the  world  reverences,  the  patriot  bands 
Were  of  the  hills  like  you,  ye  little  ones ! 

Children  of  pleasant  song 
Are  taught  within  the  mountain  solitudes  ; 
For  hoary  legends  to  your  wilds  belong, 
And  yours  are  haunts  where  inspiration  broods. 

Then  go  forth :  earth  and  sky 
To  you  are  tributary ;  joys  are  spread 

Profusely,  like  the  summer  flowers  that  lie 
In  the  green  path,  beneath  your  gamesome  tread. 

Mary  Howitt. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  15 

TO    J.    H. 

FOUR  YEARS  OLD— A  NURSERY  SONG. 

....    Pien  d'  amori, 
Pien  di  canti,  e  pien  di  fiori. 

Frugoni. 

Full  of  little  loves  of  ours. 
Full  of  songs,  and  full  of  flowers. 

AH,  little  ranting  Johnny ! 

Forever  blithe  and  bonny, 

And  sing-ing-  nonny,  nonny  ; 

With  hat  just  thrown  upon  ye, 

Or  whistling  like  the  thrushes, 

With  voice  in  silver  gushes  ; 

Or  twisting  random  posies 

With  daisies,  weeds,  and  roses  ; 

And  strutting  in  and  out  so, 

Or  dancing  all  about  so ; 

With  cock-up  nose  so  lightsome, 

And  sidelong  eyes  so  brightsome, 

And  cheeks  as  ripe  as  apples, 

And  head  as  rough  as  Dapple's, 

And  arms  as  sunny  shining 

As  if  their  veins  they'd  wine  in, 

And  mouth  that  smiles  so  truly 

Heaven  seems  to  have  made  it  newly  — 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

It  breaks  into  such  sweetness 
With  merry-lipped  completeness  ; 
Ah,  Jack,  ah,  Gianni  mio, 
As  blithe  as  Laughing  Trio  ! 
Sir  Richard,  too,  you  rattler, 
So  christened  from  the  Tatler, 
My  Bacchus  in  his  glory, 
My  little  Cor-di-fiori, 
My  tricksome  Puck,  my  Robin, 
Who  in  and  out  come  bobbing, 
As  full  of  feints  and  frolics  as 
That  fibbing  rogue  Antolycus, 
And  play  the  graceless  robber  on 
Your  grave-eyed  brother  Oberon,  — 
Ah,  Dick,  ah,  Dolce-riso, 
How  can  you,  can  you  be  so  ? 

One  cannot  turn  a  minute, 

But  mischief—  there  you're  in  it : 

A-getting  at  my  books,  John, 

With  mighty  bustling  looks,  John  ; 

Or  poking  at  the  roses, 

In  midst  of  which  your  nose  is  ; 

Or  climbing  on  a  table, 

No  matter  how  unstable, 

And  turning  up  your  quaint  eye 

And  half-shut  teeth,  with,  "  Mayn't  I .: 

Or  else  you're  off  at  play,  John, 

Just  as  you'd  be  all  day,  John, 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

With  hat  or  not,  as  happens  ; 

And  there  you  dance,  and  clap  hands, 

Or  on  the  grass  go  rolling-, 

Or  plucking  flowers,  or  bowling, 

And  getting  me  expenses 

With  losing  balls  o'er  fences  ; 

Or,  as  the  constant  trade  is, 

Are  fondled  by  the  ladies 

With,  "  What  a  young  rogue  this  is  !  " 

Reforming  him  with  kisses  ; 

Till  suddenly  you  cry  out, 

As  if  you  had  an  eye  out, 

So  desperately  tearful, 

The  sound  is  really  fearful ; 

When,  lo  !  directly  after, 

It  bubbles  into  laughter. 

Ah,  rogue  !  and  do  you  know,  John, 
Why  'tis  we  love  you  so,  John  ? 
And  how  it  is  they  let  ye 
Do  what  you  like  and  pet  ye, 
Though  who  look  upon  ye, 
Exclaim,  "  Ah,  John,  Johnny  !  " 
It  is  because  you  please  'em 
Still  more  Johnny,  than  you  tease  'em  ; 
Because,  too,  when  not  present, 
The  thought  of  you  is  pleasant ; 
Because,  though  such  an  elf,  John, 
They  think  that  if  yourself,  John, 
2 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Had  something  to  condemn  too, 
You'd  be  as  kind  to  them  too  ; 
In  short,  because  you're  very 
Good-tempered,  Jack,  and  merry, 
And  are  as  quick  at  giving 
As  easy  at  receiving, 
And  in  the  midst  of  pleasure 
Are  certain  to  find  leisure 
To  think,  my  boy,  of  ours, 
And  bring  us  lumps  of  flowers. 

But  see,  the  sun  shines  brightly  ; 
Come,  put  your  hat  on  rightly, 
And  we'll  among  the  bushes, 
And  hear  your  friends,  the  thrushes  ; 
And  see  what  flowers  the  weather 
Has  rendered  fit  to  gather  ; 
And,  when  we  home  must  jog,  you 
Shall  ride  my  back,  you  rogue  you,  — 
Your  hat  adorned  with  fine  leaves, 
Horse-chestnut,  oak,  and  vine-leaves  ; 
And  so,  with  green  o'erhead,  John, 
Shall  whistle  home  to  bed,  John. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  19 


UNDER  MY  WINDOW. 


UNDER  my  window,  under  my  window, 

All  in  the  midsummer  weather, 
Three  little  girls,  with  fluttering  curls, 

Flit  to  and  fro  together  :  — 
There's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver  green, 

And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I  hear 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah !  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses  ; 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 

As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
In  the  blue  midsummer  weather, 

Stealing  slow,  on  a  hushed  tiptoe, 
I  catch  them  all  together :  — 

Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 

And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver  green, 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 


TOEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
And  off  through  the  orchard  closes, 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 
They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies  ; 

But  dear  little  Kate  takes  nought  amiss, 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss, 
And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 

T.  Westwood. 


THE   GAMBOLS  OF  CHILDREN. 

DOWN  the  dimpled  greensward  dancing, 
Bursts  a  flaxen-headed  bevy  — 

Bud-lipped  boys  and  girls  advancing, 
Love's  irregular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter, 
How  they  glimmer,  how  they  quiver  ! 

Sparkling  one  another  after, 
Like  bright  ripples  on  a  river. 

Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces, 
Flushed  with  Joy's  ethereal  spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  sly  grimaces 
At  Love's  self,  and  do  not  fear  it. 

George  Darley, 


POEMS    OF    CHILD  HOOD.  21 

A  FAXCY   ABOUT  A  BOY. 

"  Nothing,  —  less  than  nothing  ;  and  vanity." 

WE  stood  beside  the  window,  still  — 

The  little  boy  and  I ; 
Within  the  room  was  sober  gloom  j 

Without,  a  sunset  sky. 
I  drew  him  forward  to  the  light, 

That  I  might  view  him  plain : 
The  sudden  view  thrilled  my  heart  through 

With  a  delicious  pain. 

I  leant  his  head  back  o'er  my  arm, 

And  smoothed  his  crisped  hair  — 
The  dear,  dear  curls,  o'er  which  salt  pearls 

I  could  have  rained  out  there. 
I  looked  beneath  his  heavy  lids, 

Drooping  with  dreamy  fold : 
What  visioned  eyes  I  saw  arise  ! 

But  nothing  shall  be  told. 

Gayly  I  spoke :  "  Could  I  count  back 

Nine  years,  and  he  gain  nine, 
I  would  not  say  what  ill  to-day 

Had  chanced  this  heart  of  mine." 
He  laughed  —  all  laughed  —  I  most  of  all ; 

But  I  was  glad,  I  ween, 
That  the  whole  room  lay  in  such  gloom 

His  face  alone  was  seen. 


22  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

He  talked  to  me  in  schoolboy  phrase  ; 

I  gave  him  meet  replies, 
I  mind  not  what ;  my  sense  was  nought, 

Or  lived  but  in  mine  eyes. 
I  could  not  kiss  him  as  a  child  j 

I  only  touched  his  hair ; 
Or  with  my  hand  his  broad  brow  spanned, 

But  not  that  it  was  fair. 

He,  strange  to  me,  as  I  to  him  — 

We  never  met  before  ; 
Yet  I  would  fain  brave  mickle  pain 

To  see  the  lad  once  more. 
But  why  this  was,  and  is,  God  knows ; 

And  I —  I  know,  with  joy, 
I'll  find,  among  his  angel-throng, 

An  angel  like  that  boy. 

Anonymous. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


LITTLE   ELLIJE. 

DARLING  little  Ellie, 
Stout  of  heart  and  limb  — 

What,  I  often  wonder, 
Will  the  future  make  of  him  ? 

Where  will  be  the  roses 
That  make  his  cheeks  so  red, 

When  years,  with  their  temptations, 
And  trials  shall  have  fled  ? 

Stirring  with  the  morning, 
As  if  he  owned  the  farm; 

On  the  floor  at  sunset, 
Sleeping1  on  his  arm. 

Torn  and  faded  jacket, 

Feet  brown  and  bare, 
Sunshine  laughing  in  his  eyes, 

And  tangled  in  his  hair. 

In  his  little  bucket 

Helping  milk  the  cows  — 
Riding  on  the  horses, 

Tumbling-  down  the  mows  ; 

Wading  in  the  water, 

Working  mimic  mills  — 
Chasing  through  the  meadows, 

Rolling  down  the  hills  ; 


POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Making  strings  of  elm-bark, 

Stealing  mother's  yarn  — 
All  to  see  his  kite  fly 

Higher  than  the  barn  j 

Planning,  long  aforetime, 

With  ambitious  pride, 
How,  when  snow  has  fallen, 

He'll  have  a  sled  and  ride. 

Gravely  puzzling  over 

Each  childish  little  plan — 
Working,  and  tugging, 

And  scheming  like  a  man. 

Now  upon  grandfather's  knee, 

Listening  with  delight 
To  the  stories  that  are  new 

Every  day  and  night. 

Now,  with  joyous  make-believe, 

In  despite  his  frown, 
Turning  chairs  to  railcars, 

And  riding  into  town. 

Ah,  'tis  wisely  well  for  us 

That  we  cannot  see 
What,  in  years  that  are  to  come, 

He  will  grow  to  be. 

Alice  Cary. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


TO  H.  C. 

SIX  YEARS  OLD. 

0  THOU,  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought ; 
Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a  mock  apparel, 

And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 

The  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self  born  carol ; 
Thou  fairy  voyager,  that  dost  float 
In  such  clear  water  that  thy  boat 
May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream  — 
Suspended  in  a  stream  as  clear  as  sky, 
Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one  imagery  j 
O,  blessed  vision !  happy  child ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy  guest, 

Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  ; 
And  Grief,  uneasy  lover,  never  rest 

But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 
O,  too  industrious  folly  ! 
O,  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 
Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite  ; 
Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 


26  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 

A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown  flocks. 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-niorrow  ? 
Thou  art  a  dew-drop,  which  the  morn  brings  forth, 
111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks, 
Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth  ; 

A  gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives, 

And  no  forewarning  gives, 
But,  at  the  touch  of  wrongs,  without  a  strife 
Slips  in  a  moment  out  of  life. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  GEORGE  M . 

YES,  I  do  love  thee  well,  my  child, 

Albeit  mine's  a  wandering  mind  ; 
But  never,  darling,  hast  thou  smiled, 

Or  breathed  a  wish,  that  did  not  find 

A  ready  echo  in  my  heart. 
What  hours  I've  held  thee  on  my  knee, 

Thy  little  rosy  lips  apart ! 
Or,  when  asleep,  I've  gazed  on  thee, 
And  with  old  tunes  sung  thee  to  rest, 

Hugging  thee  closely  to  my  bosom  ; 
For  thee  my  very  heart  hath  blessed, 

My  joy,  my  care,  my  blue-eyed  blossom  ! 

Thomas  Miller. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

ART  thou  a  thing-  of  mortal  birth, 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ? 
Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue, 
That  stray  along"  that  forehead  fair, 
Lost  'mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair  ? 
O,  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doomed  to  death  ? 
Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent  ? 
Or,  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
A  phantom  of  a  blessed  dream  ? 

A  human  shape  I  feel  thou  art ; 
I  feel  it  at  my  beating  heart, 
Those  tremors  both  of  soul  and  sense 
Awoke  by  infant  innocence  ! 
Though  dear  the  forms  by  Fancy  wove, 
We  love  them  with  a  transient  love  j 
Thoughts  from  the  living  world  intrude 
Even  on  her  deepest  solitude : 
But,  lovely  child,  thy  magic  stole 
At  once  into  my  inmost  soul, 
With  feelings  as  thy  beauty  fair, 
And  left  no  other  vision  there. 

To  me  thy  parents  are  unknown  ; 
Glad  would  they  be  their  child  to  own ! 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

And  well  they  must  have  loved  beft*  ~, 
If  since  thy  birth  they  loved  not  more. 
Thou  art  a  branch  of  noble  stem, 
And,  seeing  thee,  I  figure  them. 
What  many  a  childless  one  would  give, 
If  thou  in  their  still  home  wouldst  live, 
Though  in  thy  face  no  family  line 
Might  sweetly  say,  "  This  babe  is  mine  !  " 
In  time  thou  wouldst  become  the  same 
As  their  own  child,  all  but  the  name. 

How  happy  must  thy  parents  be 
Who  daily  live  in  sight  of  thee  ! 
Whose  hearts  no  greater  pleasure  seek 
Than  see  thee  smile,  and  hear  thee  speak, 
And  feel  all  natural  griefs  beguiled 
By  thee,  their  fond,  their  duteous  child  ' 
What  joy  must  in  their  souls  have  stirred 
When  thy  first  broken  words  were  heard  — 
Words,  that,  inspired  by  heaven,  expressed 
The  transports  dancing  in  thy  breast ! 
And  for  thy  smile  !  —  thy  lip,  cheek,  brow, 
Even  while  I  gaze,  are  kindling  now. 

I  called  thee  duteous  ;  am  1  wrong  ? 
No  !  truth,  I  feel,  is  in  my  song. 
Duteous,  thy  heart's  still  beatings  move 
To  God,  to  Nature,  and  to  love  ! 
To  God  !  — for  thou,  a  harmless  child, 
Hast  kept  his  temple  undefiled  : 
To  Xaturc  !  —  for  thy  tears  and  sighs 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  29 

Obey  alone  her  mysteries  ; 
To  Love  !  —  for  fiends  of  hate  might  sec 
Thou  dwcll'st  in  love,  and  love  in  thee. 
What  wonder  then,  though  in  thy  dreams 
Thy  face  with  mystic  meaning  beams  ! 

O,  that  my  spirit's  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy  ! 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years  ; 
Thou  smilest  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven's  God  adoring. 
And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant's  sleeping  eye  ? 
What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on  than  an  infant's  mind, 
Ere  sin  destroy,  or  error  dim, 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim  ? 

But  now  thy  changing  smiles  express 
Intelligible  happiness. 
I  feel  my  soul  thy  soul  partake  ; 
What  grief  if  thou  wouldst  now  awake  ! 
With  infants  happy  as  thyself 
I  see  thee  bound,  a  playful  elf; 
I  see  thou  art  a  darling  child 
Among  thy  playmates  bold  and  wild  ; 
They  love  thee  well ;  thou  art  the  queen 
Of  all  their  sports,  in  bower  or  green  ; 
And  if  thou  livest  to  woman's  height, 
In  thee  will  friendship,  love,  delight. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

And  live  thou  surely  must ;  thy  life 
Is  far  too  spiritual  for  the  strife 
Of  mortal  pain  ;  nor  could  disease 
Find  heart  to  prey  on  smiles  like  these. 
O,  thou  wilt  be  an  angel  bright — 
To  those  thou  lovest,  a  saving  light  — 
The  staff  of  age,  the  help  sublime 
Of  erring  youth,  and  stubborn  prime  ; 
And  when  thou  goest  to  heaven  again, 
Thy  vanishing  be  like  the  strain 
Of  airy  harp  —  so  soft  the  tone 
The  ear  scarce  knows  when  it  is  gone ! 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

DEAR  child !  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame, 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame, 
Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild- wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves 
Came  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 

With  bright,  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go, 
And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day, 
And  brow  so  calm,  a  home  for  Thought 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought ; 
Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 
Thou  brightenest  well  the  wise  man's  lot. 

That  shout  proclaims  the  undoubting  mind  ; 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind  j 
And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  unthought  of,  simply  free, 
How  weak  the  schoolman's  formal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part ! 
I  hail  thee  Childhood's  very  lord, 
In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 


32  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding-  fear, 

A  thing  thou  art  of  present  cheer  ; 

And  thus  to  be  beloved  and  known, 

As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone, 

As  is  the  forest's  leafy  shade, 

Or  blackbird's  hidden  serenade. 

Thou  art  a  flash  that  lights  the  whole  — 

A  gush  from  nature's  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  child  !  within  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives  ; 
That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air, 
Than  all  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair. 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee  ; 
For,  'mid  tlmic  aimless  joys,  began 
'rhe  perfect  heart  and  will  of  man. 

Thus,  what  thou  art,  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be  ; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go, 
Ever  within,  not  loud  but  clear, 
Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear, 
And  says  thnt  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 

Joltn  Sterling. 


CHILDHOOD. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  33 


LITTLE     CORA. 

CORA'S  hand  is  dimpled  — 

Very  small  and  fair, 
And  its  softness  soothes  me 

Pressing  on  my  hair ; 
Cora's  voice  is  music, 

Gushing  through  the  hours, 
Kippling  in  the  twilight, 

"  Whom  we  love  are  ours." 

Cora  has  two  natures  ; 

A  mischief-loving  sprite, 
Peeping  from  meek  eyelids 

Through  fringes  dark  as  night  - 
A  spirit  sweet  and  saintly 

Sitting  in  her  smile, 
With  one  wing  in  the  fountain 

That  sent  up  tears  erewhile. 

And  here  we  sit  together  ; 

Each  heart  with  its  sphinx, 
Xow  winding  — now  unloosing 

Life's  Gordian  knotted  links  ; 
Till  a  mild  voice  whispers  — 

"  Ye  linger,  daughters,  late, 
And  Beauty's  handmaids  only 

On  early  sleepers  wait.'" 
3 


34  POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD. 

God  bless  my  Cora's  mother 

For  her  heart  of  ruth, 
And  keep  forever  gleaming 

The  dew-drops  of  her  youth. 
God  love  the  rare  old  mansion, 

With  its  something  dearer  still 
Than  the  white-browed  children 

And  the  star-song's  thrill ! 


MATERNAL  DAYS. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development  —  to  watch 

Thy  dawn  )f  little  joys  —  to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth  —  to  view  thee  catch 

Knowledge  of  objects  —  wonders  yet  to  thee  j 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 

And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss  ; 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me .' 

Yet  this  was  in  my  nature ;  —  as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  there  is  there,  yet 

Something  like  to  this. 

Byron. 


POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  the  little  man ! 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
"With  thy  red  lip  redder  still, 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  janty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  ! 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride,  — 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy, 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye  : 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O,  for  boyhood's  painless  play  ! 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools ; 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flowers'  time  and  place, 


30  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell. 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well  j 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay  j 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  : 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June  ! 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon  ; 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  37 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  j 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night,  — 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond  ; 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides. 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy. 


O,  for  festal  dainties  spread 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread, 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone  gray  and  rude ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent ; 
Purple-curtained  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wide-swung  fold ; 
While,  for  music,  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frog's  orchestra  j 


POEMS    OF    CHILD  II ODD. 

And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  —  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy. 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh  as  boyhood  can  ; 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening,  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat. 
Ali  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison-cells  of  pride  ; 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's,  for  work  be  shod  ; 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  j 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah,  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  jo)', 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy. 

John  G.  Whittier. 


POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


THE  SHADOW  CHILD. 

WHENCE  came  this  little  phantom, 

That  flits  about  my  room,  — 
That's  here  from  early  morning 

Until  the  twilight  gloorn  ? 
Forever  dancing,  dancing, 

She  haunts  the  wall  and  floor, 
And  frolics  in  the  sunshine 

Around  the  open  door. 

The  ceiling  by  the  table 

She  makes  her  choice  retreat, 
For  there  a  little  human  girl 

Is  wont  to  have  her  seat. 
They  take  a  dance  together  — 

A  crazy  little  jig ; 
And  sure  two  baby  witches 

Ne'er  ran  so  wild  a  rig. 

They  pat  their  hands  together, 

With  frantic  jumps  and  springs, 
Until  you  almost  fancy 

You  can  catch  the  gleam  of  wings. 
Shrill  shrieks  the  human  baby 

In  the  madness  of  delight, 
And  back  return  loud  echoes 

From  the  little  shadow  sprite. 


40  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

Her  blue  eyes  are  beaming, 

And  each  seems  a  little  dream 
Of  the  violet  reflected 

In  the  silence  of  a  stream  ; 
And  she  always  is  so  happy, 

Though  the  saddest  things  occur, 
That  I  wish  I  were  a  picture, 

In  a  pretty  frame  like  her. 

At  night  I  still  am  haunted 

By  glimpses  of  her  face ; 
Her  features  on  my  pillow 

By  moonlight  I  can  trace. 
Whence  came  this  shadow-baby, 

That  haunts  my  heart  and  home  ? 
What  kindly  hand  hath  sent  her, 

And  wherefore  hath  she  come  ? 

Long  be  her  dancing  image 

Our  guest  by  night  and  day, 
For  lonely  were  our  dwelling 

If  she  were  now  away. 
Far  happier  hath  our  home  been, 

More  blest  than  ere  before, 
Since  first  that  little  shadow 

Came  gliding  through  our  door. 


POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD.  41 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING  HOOD. 

COME  back,  come  back  together, 

All  ye  fancies  of  the  past : 
Ye  days  of  April  weather, 

Ye  shadows  that  are  cast 

By  the  haunted  hours  before  ! 
Come  back,  come  back,  my  childhood  ; 

Thou  art  summoned  by  a  spell 
From  the  green  leaves  of  the  wildwood, 

From  beside  the  charmed  well, 

For  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore ! 

The  fields  were  covered  over 

With  colors  as  she  went ; 
Daisy,  buttercup,  and  clover 

Below  her  footsteps  bent ; 

Summer  shed  its  shining  store  ; 
She  was  happy  as  she  pressed  them 

Beneath  her  little  feet ; 
She  plucked  them  and  caressed  them ; 

They  were  so  very  sweet, 

They  had  never  seemed  so  sweet  before, 
To  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 


42  FOE  MS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

How  the  heart  of  childhood  dances 

Upon  a  sunny  day  ! 
It  has  its  own  romances, 
And  a  wide,  wide  world  have  they  ! 
A  world  where  Phantasie  is  king1, 
Made  all  of  eager  dreaming ; 

When  once  grown  up  and  tall  — 
Now  is  the  time  for  scheming  — 
Then  we  shall  do  them  all ! 

Do  such  pleasant  fancies  spring 
For  Red  Hiding-  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

She  seems  like  an  ideal  love, 

The  poetry  of  childhood  shown, 
And  yet  loved  with  a  real  love, 
As  if  she  were  our  own  — 

A  younger  sister  for  the  heart ; 
Like  the  woodland  peasant 

Her  hair  is  brown  and  bright  j 
And  her  smile  is  pleasant, 
With  its  rosy  light. 

Never  can  the  memory  part 
With  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 


Did  the  painter,  dreaming 
In  a  morning  hour, 

Catch  the  fairy  seeming- 
Of  this  fairy  flower  ? 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  43 

Winning  it  with  eager  eyes 
From  the  old  enchanted  stories, 
Lingering  with  a  long  delight 
On  the  unfor gotten  glories 
Of  the  infant  sight  ? 

Giving  us  a  sweet  surprise 
In  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

Too  long  in  the  meadow  staying, 

Where  the  cowslip  bends, 
With  the  buttercups  delaying 
As  with  early  friends, 

Did  the  little  maiden  stay. 
Sorrowful  the  tale  for  us ; 

We,  too.  loiter  'mid  life's  flowers, 
A  little  while  so  glorious, 
So  soon  lost  in  darker  hours. 

All  love  lingering  on  their  way, 
Like  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

Lcetitia  Elizabeth  Maclean. 


44  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


WATCH,  MOTHER,  WATCH. 

MOTHER,  watch  the  little  feet 
Climbing-  o'er  the  garden  wall, 

Bounding  through  the  busy  street, 
Ranging  cellar,  shed,  and  hall. 

Never  count  the  moments  lost, 

Never  mind  the  time  it  cost  j 

Little  feet  will  go  astray, 

Guide  them,  mother,  while  you  may. 

Mother,  watch  the  little  hand 
Picking  berries  by  the  way, 
Making  houses  in  the  sand, 

Tossing  up  the  fragrant  hay. 
Never  dare  the  question  ask  — 
"  Why  to  me  this  weary  task  ?  " 
These  same  little  hands  may  provo 
Messengers  of  light  and  love. 

Mother,  watch  the  little  tongue 

Prattling  eloquent  and  wild, 
What  is  said,  and  what  is  sung- 

By  the  happy,  joyous  child. 
Catch  the  word  while  yet  unspoken, 
Stop  the  vow  before  'tis  broken ; 
This  same  tongue  may  yet  proclaim 
Blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  45 

Mother,  watch  the  little  heart, 
Beating  soft  and  warm  for  you  ; 

Wholesome  lessons  now  impart, 
Keep,  O  keep  that  young  heart  true  j 

Extricating  every  weed  j 

Sowing  good  and  precious  seed ; 

Harvest  rich  you  then  may  see, 

Ripening  for  eternity. 


A  CHILD  PRAYING. 

FOLD  thy  little  hands  in  prayer, 

Bow  down  at  thy  mother's  knee  ; 
Now  thy  sunny  face  is  fair, 
Shining  through  thine  auburn  hair  ; 

Thine  eyes  are  passion  free  ; 
And  pleasant  thoughts,  like  garlands,  brad  thoc 
Unto  thy  home,  yet  grief  may  find  thee  — 
Then  pray,  child,  pray  ! 

Now,  thy  young  heart,  like  a  bird, 

Warbles  in  its  summer  nest ; 
No  evil  thought,  no  unkind  word, 
No  chilling  autumn  winds  have  stirred 

The  beauty  of  thy  rest ; 


40  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

But  winter  hastens,  and  decay 
Shall  waste  thy  verdant  home  away  — 
Then  pray,  child,  pray  1 

Thy  bosom  is  a  house  of  glee, 

With  gladness  harping  at  the  door  j 
While  ever,  with  a  joyous  shout, 
Hope,  the  May  queen,  dances  out, 

Her  lips  with  music  running  o'er ; 
But  Time  those  strings  of  joy  will  sever, 
And  Hope  will  not  dance  on  forever  — 
Then  pray,  child,  pray  I 

Now,  thy  mother's  arm  is  spread 

Beneath  thy  pillow  in  the  night ; 
And  loving  feet  creep  round  thy  bed, 
And  o'er  thy  quiet  face  is  shed 
The  taper's  darkened  light ; 
But  that  fond  arm  will  pass  away, 
By  thee  no  more  those  feet  will  stay  — 
Then  pray,  child,  pray  ! 

Robert  Aris  Wittmott. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  47 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE. 


e  cornfields  and  meadows 
Are  pearled  with  the  dew, 
With  the  first  sunny  shadow 
Walks  little  Boy  Blue. 

O,  the  nymphs  and  the  graces 

Still  gleam  on  his  eyes, 
And  the  kind  fairy  faces 

Look  down  from  the  skies  ! 

And  a  secret  revealing 

Of  life  within  life, 
When  feeling  meets  feeling 

In  musical  strife. 

A  winding  and  weaving 

In  flowers  and  in  trees, 
A  floating  and  heaving 

In  sunlight  and  breeze. 

A  striving  and  soaring, 

A  gladness  and  grace, 
Make  him  kneel  half  adoring 

The  God  in  the  place. 


48  POEMS    OF    CHILD  HOOD. 

Then  amid  the  live  shadows 
Of  lambs  at  their  play, 

Where  the  kine  scent  the  meadows 
With  breath  like  the  May  j  — 

He  stands  in  the  splendor 
That  waits  on  the  morn, 

And  a  music  more  tender 
Distils  from  his  horn. 

And  he  weeps,  he  rejoices, 
He  prays  ;  nor  in  vain, 

For  soft  loving  voices 
Will  answer  again  ; 

And  the  nymphs  and  the  graces 
Still  gleam  through  the  dew, 

And  kind  fairy  faces 
Watch  little  Boy  Blue. 

Anonymous. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  49 


A  LITTLE  GIRL  THAT  MEETS  ME. 

THERE'S  a  little  girl  that  meets  me, 
And  with  laughter  ever  greets  me, 
And  to  kiss  her  oft  entreats  me, 

As  I  stray 

'Long  the  path  of  life,  so  dreary, 
Where  the  saddened  heart  and  weary 
Shades  the  sunlight,  shining  near  me, 

On  my  way. 

She  has  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven  — 
Only  aged  about  eleven  ; 
But  unto  her  God  has  given 

Such  a  heart, 

That  forever  she  is  singing, 
And  her  sweet  voice,  ever  ringing, 
Beauty  o'er  the  rapt  heart  bringing, 

Sweet  as  art. 

With  her  sunny  hair  so  curly, 
With  her  teeth  so  white  and  pearly, 
I  have  met  her,  late  and  early, 

By  the  way ; 

And  I  take  her  hand,  and  press  it 
In  my  own,  just  to  caress  it  — 
"  Pretty  little  hand  —  God  bless  it !  " 

I  do  say. 


50  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

May  the  world  smile  kindly  on  her, 
Benedictions  fall  upon  her, 
Angels  be  her  guard  of  honor, 

As  she  goes 

Through  this  world  of  ours,  singing, 
Peace  to  troubled  spirits  bringing, 
No  grief  her  poor  heart  wringing 

With  its  woes. 

May  the  sweetest  harp  in  heaven, 
Brightest  crown  that  e'er  was  given 
Where  the  waves  of  life  are  driven 

Past  the  throne, 
Echo  to  her  dainty  finger, 
'Pon  her  pure  brow  ever  linger, 
While  each  angel  is  a  singer, 

Calling  home. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


CHILDHOOD. 

CHILDHOOD  !  happiest  stage  of  life  ! 
Free  from  care,  and  free  from  strife, 
Free  from  memory's  ruthless  reign, 
Fraught  with  scenes  of  former  pain  ; 
Free  from  fancy's  cruel  skill, 
Fabricating  future  ill ; 
Time  when  all  that  meets  the  view, 
All  can  charm,  for  all  is  new  ; 
How  thy  long-lost  hours  I  mourn, 
Never,  never  to  return  ! 

Then  to  toss  the  circling  ball, 
Caught  rebounding  from  the  wall ; 
Then  the  mimic  ship  to  guide 
Down  the  kennel's  dirty  tide  j 
Then  the  hoop's  revolving  pace 
Through  the  dirty  street  to  chase  j 
O  what  joy  !  it  once  was  mine ; 
Childhood  !  matchless  boon  of  thine  1 
How  thy  long-lost  hours  I  mourn, 
Never,  never  to  return ! 

Scott. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


A  CHILD'S  SMILE. 


"  For  I  say  unto  you,  that  in  heaven  their  angels  do  always 
behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 


A  CHILD'S  smile  — -  nothing  more  ; 
Quiet,  and  soft,  and  grave,  and  seldom  seen  ; 

Like  summer  lightning  o'er, 
Leaving  the  little  luce  again  serene. 

I  think,  boy  well  beloved, 
Thine  angel,  who  did  grieve  to  see  how  far 

Thy  childhood  is  removed 
From  sports  that  dear  to  other  children  are ;  — 

On  this  pale  check  has  thrown 
The  brightness  of  his  countenance,  and  made 

A  beauty  like  his  own  — 
That  while  we  see  it,  we  are  half  afraid, 

And  marvel,  will  it  stay  ? 
Or,  long  ere  manhood,  will  that  angel  fair, 

Departing  some  sad  day, 
Steal  the  child-smile  and  leave  the  shadow  care  ? 

r 


POEMS    OF    CHILD HOOD.  j 

Nay,  fear  not.    As  is  given 
Unto  this  child  the  father  watching  o'er, 

His  angel  up  in  heaven 
Beholds  our  Father's  face  forevermore. 

And  He  will  help  him  bear 
His  burden,  as  his  father  helps  him  now  ; 

So  may  he  come  to  wear 

That  happy  child-smile  on  an  old  man's  brow. 
Miss  Muloch. 


CHILDHOOD. 

IN  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse 

Upon  the  days  gone  by  5  to  act  in  thought 

Past  seasons  o'er,  and  be  again  a  child ; 

To  sit  in  fancy  on  the  turf-clad  slope 

Down  which  the  child  would  roll ;  to  pluck  gay 

flowers, 

Make  posies  in  the  sun,  which  the  child's  hand 
(Childhood  offended  soon,  soon  reconciled) 
Would  throw  away,  and  straight  take  up  again, 
Then  fling  them  to  the  winds,  and  o'er  the  lawn 
Bound  with  so  playful  and  so  light  a  foot, 
That  the  pressed  daisy  scarce  declined  her  head. 
Charles  Lamb. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE   CHILDREN. 

BEAUTIFUL  the  children's  faces  ! 

Spite  of  all  that  mars  and  sears  j 
To  my  inmost  heart  appealing1 ; 
Calling  forth  love's  tendercst  feeling  ; 

Steeping  all  my  soul  with  tears. 

Eloquent  the  children's  faces  — 
Poverty's  lean  look,  which  saith, 

"  Save  us  !  save  us  !  woe  surrounds  us  ; 

Little  knowledge  sore  confounds  us  ; 
Life  is  but  a  lingering  death. 

"  Give  us  light  amid  our  darkness  ; 

Let  us  know  the  good  from  ill ; 
Hate  us  not  for  all  our  blindness  ; 
Love  us,  lead  us,  show  us  kindness  — 

You  can  make  us  what  you  will. 

"  "We  arc  willing,  we  are  ready ; 

We  would  learn  if  you  would  teach ; 
"We  have  hearts  that  yearn  to  duty  j 
We  have  minds  alive  to  beauty  ; 

Souls  that  any  heights  can  reach. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

"  Raise  us  by  your  Christian  knowledge  ; 

Consecrate  to  man  our  powers  ; 
Let  us  take  our  proper  station  ; 
We,  the  rising  generation, 

Let  us  stamp  the  age  as  ours. 

"  We  shall  be  what  you  will  make  us  — 
Make  us  wise  and  make  us  good  ! 

Make  us  strong  in  time  of  trial ; 

Teach  us  temperance,  self-denial, 
Patience,  kindness,  fortitude. 

"  Look  into  our  childish  faces  ; 

See  ye  not  our  willing  hearts  ? 
Only  love  us —  only  lead  us ; 
Only  let  us  know  you  need  us, 

And  we  all  will  do  our  parts. 

"  We  are  thousands  —  many  thousands  ; 

Every  day  our  ranks  increase ; 
Let  us  march  beneath  your  banner, 
We,  the  legion  of  true  honor, 

Combating  for  love  and  peace. 

"  Train  us ;  try  us  ;  days  slide  onward, 
They  can  ne'er  be  ours  again ; 

Save  us !  save,  from  our  undoing ! 

Save  from  ignorance  and  ruin ; 
Make  us  worthy  to  be  men ! 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

"  Send  us  to  our  weeping-  mothers, 
Angel-stamped  in  heart  and  brow  j 

We  may  be  our  fathers'  teachers ; 

We  may  be  the  mightiest  preachers 
In  the  day  that  dawneth  now  !  " 

Such  the  children's  mute  appealing. 

All  my  inmost  soul  was  stirred  ; 
And  my  heart  was  bowed  with  sadness, 
When  a  cry,  like  summer's  gladness, 

Said,  "  The  children's  prayer  is  heard." 
Mary  Howitt. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  57 


THE  WONDERFU'  WEAN. 

OUR  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  wean  I  e'er  saw  ! 
It  would  tak  me  a  lang  simmer  day  to  tell  a' 
His  pranks,  frae  the  mornin'  till  night  shuts  his  ee  ; 
When  he  sleeps  like  a  peerie,  'tween  his  father 

and  me. 

For  in  his  quite  turns  siccan  questions  he'll  speir : 
How  the  moon  can  stick  up  in  the  sky  that's  sae 

clear  ? 
What  gars  the  wind  blaw  ?  and  where  frae  comes 

the  rain  ? 
He's  a  perfect  divert  —  he's  a  wonderfu'  wean ! 

Or  wha  was  the  first  body's  father  ?  and  wha 
Made  the  very  first  snaw-showcr  that  ever  did  fa'  i 
And  wha  made  the  first  bird  that  sang  on  a  tree  ? 
And  the  water  that  swims  a'  the  ships  in  the  sea  ? 
But  after  I've  told  him  as  weel  as  I  ken, 
Again  he  begins  with  his  wha  and  his  when ; 
And  he  looks  ay  so  wistm'  the  whiles  I  explain  ; 
He's  auld  as  the  hills  —  he's  an  auld  farrard  wean. 

And  faulk  wha  hae  skill  o'  the  bumps  on  the  head, 
Hint  there's  more  ways  than  toiliu'  o'  winnin' 

ane's  bread; 
Gar  he'll  be  a  rich  man,  and  hae  men  to  work  for 

him, 
Wi'  akyte  like  a  bailie's,  shug-shuggin'  afory  him ; 


58  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Wi'  a  face  like  the  moon  —  sober,  sonsy,  and  douce, 
And  a  back,  for  its  breadth,  like  the  side  o'  a  house. 
Tweel !  I'm  unco  ta'en  up  wi't  —  they  mak  a'  sae' 

plain, 
He's  just  a  town's  talk  ;  he's  a  by-ord'nar  wean ! 

I  ne'er  can  forget  sic  a  laugh  as  I  gat, 

To  see  him  put  on  father's  waistcoat  and  hat ; 

Then  the  lang-leggit  boots  gaed  sae  far  owre  his 

knees, 

The  tap-loops  wi'  his  fingers  he  grippit  wi'  eese ; 
Then  he  marched  through  the  house,  he  marched 

but,  he  marched  ben, 

Like  owre  many  more  o'  our  great  little  men, 
That  I  leuch  clean  outright,  for  I  cou'dna  contain, 
He  was  sic  a  conceit  —  sic  an  ancient-like  wean  ! 

But  'mid  a'  his  damn  sic  kindness  he  shows, 
That  he's  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  dew  to  the  rose  ; 
And  the  unclouded  hinny-beam  ay  in  his  ee, 
Makes  him  every  day  dearer  and  dearer  to  me. 
Though  Fortune  be  saucy,  and  dirty  and  dour, 
And  glower  through  her  fingers  like  hills  through 

a  door, 

When  bodies  hae  got  a  bit  bit  bairn  o'  their  am, 
How  he  cheers  up  their  hearts  !  —  he's  a  wonderfu' 

wean! 

William  Miller. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  59 

THE   MOTHER'S   GIFT. 

ADDRESSED  "  TO  MY  CHARLIE,"  WITH  A  BIBLE. 

So  young  you  cannot  pleasure  take 
In  this  —  but  for  your  mother's  sake, 

The  gift  you  will  not  spurn ; 
And  O,  my  child,  in  after  years, 
When  forced  to  weep  life's  bitter  tears, 

Then  to  this  volume  turn. 

Too  young  thou  art  to  prize  it  now, 
With  merry  laugh  and  sunny  brow, 

But  when  by  earth's  cares  driven, 
You'll  love  to  read  of  rest  above, 
And  prize  it  for  a  mother's  love, 

With  which,  dear  boy,  'tis  given. 

When  tempted,  love,  to  go  astray, 
Pause,  pause,  my  child !  O,  turn  away 

From  sin's  alluring  form  ; 
Go  to  thy  chamber,  and  when  there, 
Seek  in  thy  mother's  gift,  and  prayer, 

A  refuge  from  the  storm. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Read,  my  dear  son,  "  believe  and  live," 
Then  not  in  vain  this  book  I  give 

To  my  own  darling-  boy  ; 
'Twill  smooth  for  thee  life's  thorny  path, 
Teach  thee  to  shun  thy  Maker's  wrath, 

And  wear  his  "  crown  of  joy." 

"When  grief  shall  check  thy  young  heart's 

mirth, 
To  weep  that  she  who  gave  thee  birth 

Has  passed  into  the  skies  ; 
Then  ponder  o'er  thy  mother's  gift, 
It  will  thy  drooping  spirit  lift, 

And  dry  those  streaming  eyes. 

And  as  your  hand  its  pages  turn, 
Resolve,  dear  boy,  of  Christ  to  learn, 

Be  lowly,  meek,  and  mild  ; 
Remember,  she  who  gave  this  book, 
May,  though  unseen,  upon  thee  look, 

Rejoicing  in  her  child. 

But,  if  with  grief  I  am  appalled, 

That  thou  shoulclst  be  "  the  early  called," 

And  I  "  the  left  to  weep  ;  " 
Then  may  this  book  —  my  gift  to  thee  — 
Support  my  soul,  my  solace  be, 

Till  by  thy  side  I  sleep. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  61 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL'S  SONG. 

Do  not  mind  my  crying,  papa,  —  I  am  not  cry 
ing  for  pain ; 

Do  not  mind  my  shaking,  papa,  —  I  am  not 
shaking  with  fear  ; 

Though  the  wild  wind  is  hideous  to  hear, 

And  I  see  the  snow  and  the  rain  — 

When  will  you  come  back  again, 

Papa,  papa? 

Somebody  else  that  you  love,  papa, 

Somebody  else  that  you  dearly  love 

Is  weary,  like  me,  because  you're  away. 

Sometimes  I  see  her  lips  tremble  and  move, 

And  I  seem  to  know  what  they  are  going  to  say  ; 

And  every  day,  and  all  the  long  day, 

I  long  to  cry,  "  O  mamma,  mamma  ! 

When  will  papa  come  back  again  ?  " 

But  before  I  can  say  it  I  see  the  pain 

Creeping  up  on  her  white,  white  cheek, 

As  the  sweet,  sad  sunshine  creeps  up  the  white 

wall ; 

And  then  I  am  sorry,  and  fear  to  speak  : 
And  slowly  the  pain  goes  out  of  her  cheek, 
As  the  sad,  sweet  sunshine  goes  from  the  wall. 


62  POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD. 

O,  I  wish  I  were  grown  up  wise  and  tall ! 
That  I  might  throw  my  arms  around  her  neck, 
And  say,  "  Dear  mamma,  O,  what  is  it  all 
That  I  see,  and  see,  and  do  not  see, 
In  your  white  face  all  the  live-long  day  ?  " 
But  she  hides  her  grief  from  a  child  like  me. 
When  will  you  come  back  again, 
Papa,  papa  ? 

Where  were  you  going,  papa,  papa  ? 

All  this  long  while  have  you  been  on  the  sea? 

When  she  looks  as  if  she  saw  far  away, 

Is  she  thinking  of  you,  and  what  does  she  see? 

Are  the  white  sails  blowing, 

And  the  blue  men  rowing, 

And  are  you  standing  on  the  high  deck 

Where  -we  saw  you  stand  till  the  ship  grew  gray, 

And  we  watched  and  watched  till  the  ship  was  a 

speck, 

And  the  dark  came  first  to  you,  far  away  ? 
I  wish  I  could  see  what  she  can  see, — 
But  she  hides  her  grief  from  a  child  like  me. 
When  will  you  come  back  again, 
Papa,  papa  ? 

Don't  you  remember,  papa,  papa, 

How  we  used  to  sit  by  the  fire  all  three, 

And  she  told  me  tales  while  I  sat  on  her  knee, 

And  heard  the  winter  winds  roar  down  the  street, 

And  knocked  like  men  at  the  window  pane  i 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  63 

And  the  louder  they  roared,  O,  it  seemed  more 

sweet 

To  be  warm  and  warm  as  we  used  to  be, 
Sitting  at  night  by  the  fire,  all  three. 
When  will  you  come  back  again, 
Papa,  papa  ? 


Papa,  I  like  to  sit  by  the  fire ; 

Why  does  she  sit  far  away  in  the  cold  ? 

If  I  had  but  somebody  wise  and  old, 

That  every  day  I  might  cry  and  say, 

"  Is  she  changed,  do  you  think,  or  do  I  forget  ? 

Was  she  always  as  white  as  she  is  to-day  ? 

Did  she  never  carry  her  head  up  higher  ? " 

Papa,  papa,  if  I  could  but  know  ! 

Do  you  think  her  voice  was  always  so  low  ? 

Did  I  always  see  what  I  seem  to  see 

When  I  wake  up  at  night  and  her  pillow  is  wet  ? 

You  used  to  say  her  hair  it  was  gold — 

It  looks  like  silver  to  me. 

But  still  she  tells  the  same  tale  that  she  told, 

She  sings  the  same  songs  when  I  sit  on  her  knoe, 

And  the  house  goes  on  as  it  went  long  ago, 

When  we  lived  together,  all  three. 

Sometimes  my  heart  seems  to  sink,  papa, 

And  I  feel  as  if  I  could  be  happy  no  more. 

Is  she  changed,  do  you  think,  papa, 

Or  did  I  dream  she  was  brighter  before  ? 


64  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

She  makes  me  remember  my  snowdrop,  papa, 

That  I  forgot  in  thinking-  of  you, 

The  sweetest  snowdrop  that  ever  I  knew  ! 

But  I  put  it  out  of  the  sun  and  the  rain  ; 

It  was  green  and  white  when  I  put  it  away, 

It  had  one  sweet  bell  and  green  leaves  four ; 

It  was  green  and  white  when  I  found  it  that  day, 

It  had  one  pale  bell  and  green  leaves  four ; 

But  I  was  not  glad  of  it  any  more. 

Was  it  changed,  do  you  think,  papa, 

Or  did  I  dream  it  was  brighter  before  ? 

Do  not  mind  my  crying,  papa, 

I  am  not  crying  for  pain. 

Do  not  mind  my  shaking,  papa, 

I  am  not  shaking  for  fear, 

Though  the  wild,  wild  wind  is  hideous  to  hear, 

And  I  see  the  snow  and  the  rain. 

When  will  you  come  back  again, 

Papa,  papa  f 

Sidney  Dobell. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  f>5 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 


A  SIMPLE  child,  dear  brother  Jim, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 

And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl; 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 
"  How  many  ?  seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?  I  pray  you  tell.' 
She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 
5 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother ; 
And  in  the  churchyard-cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them,  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !    I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be?  " 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

4  Their  graves  are  green ;  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied, 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

««  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit  — 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 


POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD.  67 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain, 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid ; 

And  all  the  summer  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played  — 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go  — 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

44  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 
The  little  maiden  did  reply, 

"  O  master  !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away ;  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven !  " 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


MY  CHILD. 

I  CANNOT  make  him  dead  ! 

His  fair,  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair  ; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes  — he  is  not  there. 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And  through  the  open  door 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair  ; 

I'm  stepping  towards  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that  he  is  not  there. 

I  thread  the  crowded  street,  — 

A  satchelled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair ; 

And,  as  he's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that  he  is  not  there. 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes  ;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair : 

My  hand  that  marble  felt  j 

O'er  it  in  prayer  1  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  he  is  not  there. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  69 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  him  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that  he  is  not  there. 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy  ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that  he  is  not  there. 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer  ; 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am  in  spirit  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though  he  is  not  there. 

Not  there  !    Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  1  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear  ; 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked  —  he  is  not  there. 


70  POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD. 

He  lives !    In  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair : 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now, 

And  on  his  angel-brow 
I  see  it  written,  "  Thou  shalt  see  me  there." 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod, 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit-land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that  he  is  there. 
John  Pierpont. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

THY  memory,  as  a  spell 

Of  love,  comes  o'er  my  mind  ; 
As  dew  upon  the  purple  bell  — 

As  perfume  on  the  wind  — 
As  music  on  the  sea  — 

As  sunshine  on  the  river  ;  — 
So  hath  it  always  been  to  me, 

So  shall  it  be  forever. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  71 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  dreams, 

Upon  me  softly  call, 
Like  echoes  of  the  mountain  streams, 

In  sportive  waterfall. 
I  see  thy  form  as  when 

Thou  wert  a  living  thing1, 
And  blossomed  in  the  eyes  of  men 

Like  any  flower  of  spring1. 

Thy  soul  to  heaven  hath  fled, 

From  earthly  thraldom  free ; 
Yet,  'tis  not  as  the  dead 

That  thou  appear 'st  to  me. 
In  slumber  I  behold 

Thy  form,  as  when  on  earth, 
Thy  locks  of  waving  gold, 

Thy  sapphire  eye  of  mirth. 

I  hear,  in  solitude, 

The  prattle  kind  and  free, 
Thou  uttered  st  in  joyful  mood 

While  seated  on  my  knee. 
So  strong  each  vision  seems, 

My  spirit  that  doth  fill, 
I  think  not  they  are  dreams, 

But  that  thou  livest  still. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


MY  BOY. 

IT  is  his  birthday  —  ask  me  not 
Why  sadness  dwells  upon  my  brow ; 

The  past  can  never  be  forgot ; 
My  angel  boy  is  with  me  now  ! 

Ye  see  no  tear  — ye  hear  no  groan  — 

Nay,  all  my  tears  are  shed  alone ! 

My  heart  is  full ;  but  still  no  sigh 
Shall  mar  the  joy  that  others  feel ; 

I've  tried,  and  ever  mean  to  try, 
To  share  a  part  in  others'  weal. 

I  love  each  flower  that  God  hath  made, 

In  garden-walk  or  greenwood  glade. 

It  is  six  years  this  very  day, 
Since  first  I  smiled  upon  my  boy  j 

The  gift  upon  my  bosom  lay, 
A  mother's  only  pride  and  joy  ! 

My  first-born  darling  was  at  rest 

Upon  her  heavenly  Father's  breast  I 

One  cherished  bud  was  early  torn 
From  earth,  to  bloom  in  Paradise  ! 

For  weeks  and  mouths  I  sadly  mourned, 
Nor  dreamed  that  God  would  chasten  twice .' 


POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD.  73 

I  thought  he  sent  my  angel  boy 

To  bring  back  love,  and  health,  and  joy. 

The  spoiler's  hand  was  not  content ;  — 
I  loved,  and  loved,  alas,  too  well ! 

The  treasure  from  my  heart  was  rent ;  — 
Life  of  my  life,  farewell !  farewell ! 

My  Father  knew  a  heart  like  mine 

Worshipped  too  wildly  at  earth's  shrine. 

I  have  a  long  dark  chestnut  curl, 
Which  seems  to  form  of  life  a  part ; 

Not  all  the  riches  of  this  world 
Could  tempt  the  treasure  from  my  heart. 

O,  what  is  this  earth's  glittering  gold, 

When  love's  dear  treasures  have  been  sold .? 

Each  treasure  of  the  past  I  shrine  ; 

I've  garnered  up  thy  books,  my  boy  ; 
No  child  shall  touch  what  once  was  thine ; 

No  rude  hand  mar  one  single  toy. 
O,  call  me  selfish,  if  ye  will, 
And  strive  love's  warm  wild  gush  to  still. 

Ye  gaze  upon  my  tearless  eye, 
Ye  see  me  smile  when  others  smile  ; 

But  when  I  to  my  chamber  hie, 
'Tis  there  I  grieve  like  some  lone  child  ! 

Tears  are  too  sacred  gems  to  fall, 

To  attract  the  gaze  of  one  and  all. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Ye  say  that  grief  grows  less  with  time  j 
A  mother's  heart  forget  to  feel ! 

Go,  bid  the  sun  to  cease  to  shine  ! 
Yon  starry  heavens  their  gems  to  yield ! 

There's  One  who  reads  my  inmost  soul ; 

He  knows  my  love  will  ne'er  grow  cold. 

Mrs.  £.  T.  Eldredye. 


THE  LITTLE  SLEEPER. 

SHE  sleeps  ;  but  the  soft  breath 

No  longer  stirs  her  golden  hair,  — 

The  robber  hand  of  Death 

Has  stolen  thither  unaware  ; 

The  lovely  edifice 

Is  still  as  beautiful  and  fair, 

But  mournfully  we  miss 

The  gentle  habitant  that  sojourned  there. 

With  stealthy  pace  he  crept 

To  the  guest-chamber  where  it  lay  — 

That  angel-thing  —  and  slept, 

And  whispered  it  to  come  away  ; 

He  broke  the  fairy  lute 

That,  light  with  laughter,  used  to  play, 

And  left  all  dull  and  mute 

The  silver  strings  that  tinkled  forth  so  gay. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD,  75 

Then  with  his  finger  cold 

He  shut  the  glancing  windows  too ; 

With  fringe  of  drooping  gold 

He  darkened  the  small  panes  of  blue  5 

Sheer  from  the  marble  floor 

He  swept  the  flowers  of  crimson  hue ; 

He  closed  the  ivory  door, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  rosy  curtains  drew. 


The  angel-guest  is  gone, 

Upon  the  spoiler's  dark  wing  borne ; 

The  road  she  journeys  on 

Wends  evermore,  without  return. 

To  ruin  and  decay 

The  fairy  palace  now  must  turn  ; 

For  the  sun's  early  ray 

Upon  its  walls  and  windows  shall  not  play, 

Nor  light  its  golden  roof  to-morrow  morn. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


LITTLE  JANE. 

LITTLE  Jane  came  dancing 
Into  the  sunny  room, 

"  And  what  do  you  think,  papa  ?  "  she  cried, 
"  I  saw  the  father  of  Ellen  who  died, 
And  the  men  who  were  making  her  tomh  ; 
And  the  father  patted  me  on  the  head 
All  for  the  sake  of  her  who  is  dead, 
And  gave  me  this  doll,  and  wept,  and  said 
That  I  was  my  papa's  pride  !  " 
"  And  so  you  are,"  with  an  accent  wild, 
Said  the  widower  wan,— "Come  here,  my 
child ! " 

Ah,  but  her  locks  were  fair  and  bright ; 

O,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  light, 

And  her  little  feet  danced  in  ceaseless  play. 

"  Always  be  glad,  always  be  gay, 

Sing  and  romp,  and  never  be  sad. 

So  you  will  make  your  papa  glad." 

And  the  little  one  bounded  from  his  knee, 
Lifted  her  doll,  and  screamed  with  glee, 
As  the  sunlight  fell  on  the  floor  ; 
But  who  is  he  at  the  open  door, 
Waiting,  watching  evermore,— 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  77 

Whose  fellow  none  may  see, — 

Who  came  unbidden  once  before, 

And  hushed  the  harp  in  the  corner  there, 

And  filled  one  heart  with  the  wild  despair 

Of  the  endless  Nevermore? 

Stealthy  his  touch,  and  stealthy  his  tread  ; 
He  lays  his  hand  on  her  sunny  head  ; 
And  who  may  mention  the  grace  that  has  fled, 
Or  paint  the  bloom  of  light  that  is  dead  ? 

The  Present  rushes  into  the  Past  — 
Nothing  on  earth  is  doomed  to  last ; 
Summer  is  ended,  and  winter  is  near, 
Rain  is  steaming  on  moor  and  mere, 
Dead  leaves  are  on  the  blast ; 
The  shutters  are  up  in  the  empty  room,  — 
Nothing  to  break  its  hush  of  gloom, 
Nothing  but  gusts  of  plashing  rain 
Beating  against  the  window  pane, 
Mingled  with  brine  swirled  up  from  the  sea, 
And  thoughts  of  that  which  used  to  be 
And  cannot  be  again. 

J.  Stanyan  Bigg. 


78  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


THE  DYING  BOY'S  REQUEST. 

O,  TAKE  me  home,  mother, 

Where  the  brook  goes  babbling  by, 
And  where  the  thrush  pours  forth  his  song  - 

O,  take  me  home  to  die ; 
I  yearn  to  see  my  old  playground, 

Where  I  played  in  childhood's  mom, 
And  I  yearn  to  lay  on  my  little  cot 

In  the  room  where  I  was  born. 
You'll  plant  sweet  flowers  on  my  grave  — 

Say,  mother,  will  you  not ? 
You'll  lay  me  by  the  mossy  bank  — 

I've  told  you  of  the  spot ; 
'Tis  close  by  the  church,  dear  mother, 

And  when  you  kneel  to  pray, 
I'll  listen  to  your  humble  words, 

Though  I'll  be  far  away. 
I  feel  I'm  dying  now,  kind  mother  ; 

O,  take  me  to  your  breast, 
And  let  me  hear  your  loving  voice 

Ere  I  shall  sink  to  rest ; 
O,  there's  dimness  on  my  sight,  mother ; 

I  cannot  get  my  breath  ; 
Is  it  your  sobs  I  hear,  mother  ? 

O,  tell  me,  is  this  death  ? 

George  Bowlwln. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  79 


DIRGE  OF  A  CHILD. 

No  bitter  tears  for  thee  be  shed, 
Blossom  of  being-,  seen  and  gone  ! 

With  flowers  alone  we  strew  thy  bed, 
O,  blest  departed  one  ! 

"Whose  all  of  life,  a  rosy  ray, 

Blessed  into  dawn,  and  passed  away. 

Yes,  thou  art  fled,  ere  guilt  had  power 
To  stain  thy  cherub-soul  and  form  ; 

Closed  is  the  soft,  ephemeral  flower, 
That  never  felt  a  storm,  — 

The  sunbeam's  smile,  the  zephyr's  breath, 

All  that  it  knew  from  birth  to  death. 

Thou  wert  so  like  a  form  of  light, 
That  heaven  benignly  called  thee  hence, 

Ere  yet  the  world  could  breathe  one  blight 
O'er  thy  sweet  innocence  ; 

And  thou,  that  brighter  home  to  bless, 

Art  passed,  with  all  thy  loveliness. 

O,  hadst  thou  still  on  earth  remained, 
Vision  of  beauty,  fair  as  brief  ! 

How  soon  thy  brightness  had  been  stained 
With  passion  or  with  grief ! 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Now,  not  a  sullying1  breath  can  rise, 
To  dim  thy  glory  in  the  skies. 

We  rear  no  marble  o'er  thy  tomb ; 

No  sculptured  image  there  shall  mourn ; 
Ah,  fitter  far  the  vernal  bloom 

Such  dwelling  to  adorn. 
Fragrance,  and  flowers,  and  dews  must  be 
The  only  emblems  meet  for  thee. 

Thy  grave  shall  be  a  blessdd  shrine, 
Adorned  with  Nature's  brightest  wreath  ; 

Each  glowing  season  shall  combine 
Its  incense  there  to  breathe, 

And  oft,  upon  the  midnight  air, 

Shall  viewless  harps  be  murmuring  there. 

And,  O,  sometimes  in  visions  blest, 

Sweet  spirit,  visit  our  repose, 
And  bear  from  thine  own  world  of  rest 

Some  balm  for  human  woes ! 
What  form  more  lovely  could  be  given, 
Than  thine,  to  messenger  of  heaven? 

Mrs.  Hcmans. 


POEMS   OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE   ANGEL'S  STORY. 


THROUGH  the  blue  and  frosty  heavens, 
Christmas  stars  were  shining  bright ; 

The  glistening  lamps  of  the  great  city 
Almost  matched  their  gleaming  light ; 

And  the  winter  snow  was  lying, 

And  the  winter  winds  were  sighing, 
Long  ago,  one  Christmas  night. 


While  from  every  tower  and  steeple, 
Pealing  bells  were  sounding  clear, 

(Never  with  such  tones  of  gladness, 
Save  when  Christmas  time  is  near,) 

Many  a  one  that  night  was  merry, 
Who  had  toiled  through  all  the  year. 

That  night  saw  old  wrongs  forgiven, 
Friends,  long  parted,  reconcile ; 

Voices,  all  unused  to  laughter, 
Eyes  that  had  forgot  to  smile, 

Anxious  hearts  that  feared  the  morrow, 
Freed  from  all  their  cares  a  while. 
0 


82  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Rich  and  poor  felt  the  same  blossing 
From  the  gracious  season  fall ; 

Joy  and  plenty  in  the  cottage, 
Peace  and  feasting  in  the  hall ; 

And  the  voices  of  the  children 
Ringing  clear  above  it  all I 

Yet  one  house  was  dim  and  darkened ; 

Gloom,  and  sickness,  and  despair, 
Abiding  in  the  gilded  chamber, 

Climbing  up  the  marble  stair, 
Stilling  e'en  the  voice  of  mourning 

For  a  child  lay  dying  there. 

Silken  curtains  fell  around  him, 
Velvet  carpets  hushed  the  tread, 

Many  costly  toys  were  lying, 
All  unheeded,  by  his  bed ; 

And  his  tangled  golden  ringlets 
Were  on  downy  pillows  spread. 

All  the  skill  of  the  great  city 
To  save  that  little  life  was  vain ; 

That  little  thread  from  being  broken ; 

That  fatal  word  from  being  spoken  j 
Nay,  his  very  mother's  pain, 

And  the  mighty  love  within  her, 
Could  not  give  him  health  again. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

And  she  knelt  there  still  beside  him, 
She  alone  with  strength  to  smile, 

And  to  promise  he  should  suffer 
No  more  in  a  little  while, 

And  with  murmured  song  and  story, 
The  long,  weary  hours  beguile. 


Suddenly  an  unseen  Presence 

Checked  these  constant  mourning  cries, 
Stilled  the  little  heart's  quick  fluttering, 

Raised  the  blue  and  wondering  eyes, 
Fixed  on  some  mysterious  vision, 

With  a  startled,  sweet  surprise ;  — 

For  a  radiant  angel  hovered, 

Smiling,  o'er  the  little  bed  j 
White  his  raiment,  from  his  shoulders 

Snowy  dove-like  pinions  spread, 
And  a  starlike  light  was  shining  J 

In  a  glory  round  his  head. 

While,  with  tender  love,  the  angel, 

Leaning  o'er  the  little  nest, 
In  his  arms  the  sick  child  folding, 

Laid  him  gently  on  his  breast ; 
Sobs  and  wailings  from  the  mother, 

And  her  darling  was  at  rest. 


84  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

So  the  angel,  slowly  rising, 

Spread  his  wings  ;  and,  through  the  air, 
Bore  the  pretty  child,  and  held  him 

On  his  heart  with  loving  care, 
A  red  branch  of  blooming  roses 

Placing  softly  by  him  there. 


While  the  child  thus  clinging,  floated 
Towards  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 

Gazing  from  his  shining  guardian 
To  the  flowers  upon  his  breast, 

Thus  the  angel  spake,  still  smiling 
On  the  little  heavenly  guest : 


"  Know,  O  little  one  !  that  heaven 
Does  no  earthly  thing  disdain. 

Man's  poor  joys  find  there  an  echo, 
Just  as  surely  as  his  pain ; 

Love,  on  earth  so  feebly  striving, 
Lives  divine  in  heaven  again  !  " 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE  LITTLE  FROCK. 


A  COMMON  light-blue  muslin  frock 

Is  hanging1  on  the  wall, 
But  no  one  in  the  household  now 

Can  wear  a  dress  so  small. 

r 
The  sleeves  are  both  turned  inside  out, 

And  tell  of  summer  wear ; 
They  seem  to  wait  the  owner's  hands 
Which  last  year  hung  them  there. 

'Twas  at  the  children's  festival 
Her  Sunday  dress  was  soiled  — 

You  need  not  turn  it  from  the  light  — 
To  me  it  is  not  spoiled. 

A  sad  and  yet  a  pleasant  thought 

Is  to  the  spirit  told, 
By  this  dear  little  rumpling  thing, 

With  dust  in  every  fold. 

Why  should  men  weep  that  to  their  home 

An  angel's  love  is  given — 
Or  that,  before  them,  she  is  gone 

To  blessedness  in  heaven? 


80  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD 


THE   DYING  CHILD. 

"  COME  closer,  closer,  dear  mamma, 

My  heart  is  filled  with  fears  ; 
My  eyes  are  dark  ;  I  hear  your  sobs, 
But  cannot  see  your  tears. 

"  I  feel  your  warm  breath  on  my  lips* 

That  are  so  icy  cold  ; 
Come  closer,  closer,  dear  mamma, 
Give  me  your  hand  to  hold. 

"  I  quite  forget  my  little  hymn, 

'  How  doth  the  busy  bee,' 

Which  every  day  I  used  to  say, 

When  sitting  on  your  knee. 

"  Nor  can  I  recollect  my  prayers  ; 
And,  dear  mamma,  you  know 
That  the  great  God  will  angry  be 
If  I  forget  them  too. 

"  And  dear  papa,  when  he  comes  home, 

O,  will  not  he  be  vexed  ? 
«  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread  '  — 

What  is  it  that  comes  next  ?  " 

"  Hush,  darling  ;  you  are  going  to 

The  bright  and  blessed  sky, 
Where  all  God's  blessed  children  go, 
To  live  with  him  on  high." 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

"  But  will  he  love  me,  dear  mamma, 

As  tenderly  as  you  ? 
And  will  my  own  papa,  one  day, 
Come  and  live  with  me,  too  ? 

"  But  you  must  first  lay  me  to  sleep 

Where  grandpapa  is  laid  ;  — 
Is  not  the  churchyard  cold  and  dark ! 
And  shan't  I  be  afraid  ? 

"  And  will  you  every  evening-  come, 

And  say  my  pretty  prayer 
Over  poor  Lucy's  little  grave, 
And  see  that  no  one's  there  ? 

"  And  promise  me  that  when  you  die, 
That  they  your  grave  shall  make 
Next  unto  mine,  that  I  may  be 
Close  to  you  when  I  wake. 

"  Nay,  do  not  leave  me,  dear  mamma  ; 

Your  watch  beside  me  keep. 
My  heart  feels  cold  —  the  room's  all  dark ; 
'  Now  lay  me  down  to  sleep.' 

"  And  should  I  sleep  to  wake  no  more, 

Dear,  dear  mamma,  good  by  ! 
Poor  nurse  is  kind  ;  but,  O,  do  you 
Be  with  me  when  I  die ! " 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


THE   LITTLE    SLEEPER. 

No  mother's  eye  beside  thee  wakes  to-night ; 

No  taper  burns  beside  thy  lonely  bed  ; 
Darling,  thou  liest,  hidden  out  of  sight, 

And  none  are  near  thce  but  the  silent  dead. 

How  cheerly  glows  the  hearth,  yet  glows  in  vain ; 

For  we,  uncheered,  beside  it  sit  alone, 
And  listen  to  the  wild  and  beating  rain, 

In  angry  gusts  against  our  easement  blown. 

And  though  we  nothing  speak,  yet  well  I  know 
That  both  our  hearts  are  there,  where  thou  dost 
keep 

Within  thy  narrow  chamber  far  below, 
For  the  first  time  unwatched,  thy  lonely  sleep. 

O,  no ;  not  thou  !  and  we  our  faith  deny 
This  thought  allowing.    Thou,  removed  from 
harms, 

In  Abraham's  bosom  dost  securely  lie; 
O,  not  in  Abraham's,  in  a  Saviour's  arms  ! 

In  that  dear  Lord's,  who,  in  thy  worst  distress. 

Thy  bitterest  anguish,  gave  thee,  dearest  child, 
Still  to  abide  in  perfect  gentleness, 

And,  like  an  angel,  to  be  meek  and.  mild. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  89 

Sweet  corn  of  wheat,  committed  to  the  ground, 
To  die  and  live,  and  bear  more  gracious  ear  ; 

While  in  the  heart  of  earth  thy  Saviour  found 
His  place  of  rest,  for  thee  we  will  not  fear. 

Sleep  softly,  till  that  blessed  rain  and  dew, 
Down  lighting  upon  earth,  such  change  shall 

bring, 

That  all  its  fields  of  death  shall  laugh  anew  j 
Yea,  with  a  living  harvest,  laugh  and  sing. 

Dean  French. 


ANNIE    IN   THE   GRAVEYARD. 

SHE  bounded  o'er  the  graves, 

"With  a  buoyant  step  of  mirth ; 
She  bounded  o'er  the  graves, 
Where  the  weeping  willow  waves, 
Like  a  creature  not  of  earth. 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  eyes  were  glittering  bright  j 
Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 
And  her  little  hands  spread  wide, 

With  an  innocent  delight. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

She  spelled  the  lettered  word 

That  registered  the  dead  j 
She  spelled  the  lettered  word, 
And  her  busy  thoughts  were  stirred 

With  pleasure  as  she  read. 

She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf, 

Left  fluttering  on  a  rose ; 
She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf, 
Sweet  monument  of  grief, 

That  in  our  churchyard  grows. 

She  culled  it  with  a  smile  — 
'Twas  near  her  sister's  mound  ; 

She  culled  it  with  a  smile, 

And  played  with  it  a  while, 
Then  scattered  it  around. 

I  did  not  chill  her  heart, 
Nor  turn  its  gush  to  tears ; 

I  did  not  chill  her  heart  — 

O,  bitter  drops  will  start 
Full  soon  in  coming  years. 

Caroline  Gihnan. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  91 

THE    ADOPTED  CHILD. 

"  WHY  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  O  gentle  child  ? 
Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild— 
A  straw-roofed  cabin,  with  lowly  wall ; 
Mine  is  a  fair  and  pillared  hall, 
Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 
And  the  sunshine  of  pictures  forever  streams." 

"  O,  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  play, 
Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer's 

day; 

They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme, 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms 

they  know. 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Content  thee,  boy,  in  my  bower  to  dwell ; 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well : 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon, 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune, 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountain  heard." 

"  O,  my  mother  sings  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  our  own  green  tree, 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee. 
I  dreamed  last  night  of  that  music  low  — 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 


92  POEMS    OF    CHILD  HOOD. 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest ; 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast ; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footsteps,  my  boy,  no 

more, 

Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  dye." 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away  ? 
But  I  know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at  play  — 
I  know  they  are  gathering  the  fox-glove's  bell, 
Or  the  long  fern  leaves  by  the  sparkling  well ; 
Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright 

streams  flow  — 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Fair  child,  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now  ; 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green 

side, 

And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were  tied. 
Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  the  cabin  home  is  a  lonely  spot. » 

"  Are  they  gone,  all  gone,  from  the  sunny  hill  ? 
But  the  bird  and  the  bluefly  rove  o'er  it  still ; 
And  the  red  deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free, 
And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee, 
And  the  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow  — 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

Felicia  Ilemans. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  93 


THREE  LITTLE  GRAVES. 

THREE  little  graves  !  Talk  not  of  sympathy  - 

'Twere  vain  for  human  clay 
To  speak  of  consolation 

To  those  weary  hearts  to-day. 
Warmest  words  that  lips  could  fashion, 

Can  but  mock  the  woe 
Reigning  in  that  stricken  household, 

Where,  not  long  ago, 
Echoed  happy  childish  voices 

All  the  livelong  day, 
Till  an  angel  came  from  heaven, 

Bearing  them  away  ;  — 
Folding  one  in  her  white  pinions, 

Whispering  at  the  door  — 
*'  These  are  gems  too  bright  for  earth, 

I  must  gather  more  !  " 

So  she  lingered  on  the  threshold, 

O  !  so  white  and  chill  — 
Saying,  softly,  "  One  more  darling, 

Gentle  mother,  still." 
How  she  clasps  it  I    Now  she's  pleading, 

"  Let  the  little  bahy  come  — 
We  will  fold  our  wings  around  her, 

Bear  her  safely  Lome  — 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

We  will  keep  her,  O,  so  pure, 

Spotless,  undefiled  — 
Mother,  see  your  angel  band, 

Yet —  another  child !  " 

Then  the  white  wings  softly  rustled, 

And  the  low  voice  said  — 
"  Mother,  let  your  darlings  sleep-, 

Do  not  call  them  dead." 

So  they  made  three  little  graves  ; 

Let  the  sunshine  fall, 
With  its  golden  haze  upon  them, 

Bright  funereal  pall. 
Lay  the  crimson  autumn  leaves 

On  the  little  graves, 
While  above,  the  bending  willow 

Sadly,  softly  waves. 

Anguished  hearts,  bereft  and  lonely, 

In  the  angels'  keeping 
Are  your  three  lost  ones  to-night  — 

No,  not  dead,  but  sleeping ! 

Mrs.  B.  F.  E. 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD.  95 


TO  A  CHILD  DURING  SICKNESS. 

SLEEP  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little,  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  tbee 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy. 
I  sit  me  down  and  think 

Of  all  thy  winning1  ways  ; 
Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 

That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 
Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness, 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid ; 
The  little  trembling  hand 

That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears  : 
These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 

Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I've  had,  severe  ones, 

I  will  not  think  of  now, 
And  calmly,  'midst  my  dear  ones, 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow  ; 
But  when  thy  fingers  press 

And  pat  my  stooping  head, 
I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness  — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Ah,  first-born  of  thy  mother, 

When  life  and  hope  were  new  j 
Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father,  too  ; 
My  light,  where'er  I  go  5 

My  bird,  when  prison-bound  ; 
My  hand-in-hand  companion  —  No, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say,  "  He  has  departed  "  — 

"  His  voice  "  —  "  his  face  "  —  is  gone, 
To  feel  impatient-hearted, 

Yet.  feel  we  must  bear  on  — 
Ah,  I  could  not  endure 

To  whisper  of  such  woe, 
Unless  I  felt  this  sleep  insure 

That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he's  fixed,  and  sleeping  ! 

This  silence,  too,  the  while  — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 

Seem  whispering  us  a  smile  ; 
Something  divine  and  dim 

Seems  going  by  one's  ear, 
Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

Who  says,  "  We've  finished  here." 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  97 


SIX  LITTLE  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER. 

IN  my  heart  there  liveth  a  picture 

Of  a  kitchen  rude  and  old, 
Where  the  firelight  tripped  o'er  the  rafters, 

And  reddened  the  roof's  brown  mould  ; 
Gilding  the  steam  from  the  kettle 

That  hummed  on  the  foot-worn  hearth, 
Throughout  all  the  livelong  evening 

Its  measures  of  drowsy  mirth. 

* 

Because  of  the  three  light  shadows 

That  frescoed  that  rude  old  room  — 
Because  of  the  voices  echoed 

Up  'mid  the  rafters'  gloom  — 
Because  of  the  feet  on  the  fender, 

Six  restless,  white  little  feet  — 
The  thoughts  of  that  dear  old  kitchen 

Are  to  me  so  fresh  and  sweet. 

When  then  the  first  dash  on  the  window 

Told  of  the  coming  rain, 
O  !  where  are  the  fairy  young  faces 

That  crowded  against  the  pane  ? 
What  bits  of  firelight  stealing 

Their  dimpled  cheeks  between, 
Went  struggling  out  in  the  darkness 

In  shreds  of  silver  sheen  ! 


)8  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Two  of  the  feet  grew  weary, 

One  dreary,  dismal  day, 
And  we  tied  them  with  snow-white  ribbons. 

Leaving  them  there  by  the  way. 
There  was  fresh  clay  on  the  fender 

That  weary,  wintry  night, 
For  the  four  little  feet  had  tracked  it 

From  his  grave  on  the  bright  hill's  height. 

O  !  why,  on  this  darksome  evening, 

This  evening1  of  rain  and  sleet, 
Rest  my  feet  all  alone  on  the  hearthstone  ? 

O  !  where  are  those  other  feet  ? 
Are  they  treading  the  pathway  of  virtue 

That  will  bring  us  together  above  f 
Or  have  they  made  steps  that  will  dampen 

A  sister's  tireless  love  ? 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  99 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  THAT  DIED. 


Dr.  Chalmers  is  said  to  be  the  author  of  the  following 
beautiful  poem,  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  a 
young  son  whom  he  greatly  loved. 


I  AM  all  alone  in  my  chamber  now, 

And  the  midnight  hour  is  near, 
And  the  fagot's  crack  and  the  clock's  dull  tick, 

Are  the  only  sounds  I  hear ; 
And  over  my  soul,  in  its  solitude, 

Sweet  feelings  of  sadness  glide, 
For  my  heart  and  my  eyes  are  full  when  I  think 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died. 

I  went  one  night  to  my  father's  house  — 

Went  home  to  the  dear  ones  all  — 
And  softly  I  opened  the  garden  gate, 

And  softly  the  door  of  the  hall. 
My  mother  came  out  to  meet  her  son  — 

She  kissed  me,  and  then  she  sighed, 
And  her  head  fell  on  my  neck,  and  she  wept 

For  the  little  boy  that  died. 


100  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

I  shall  miss  him  when  the  flowers  come, 

In  the  garden  where  he  played  ; 
I  shall  miss  him  more  by  the  fireside, 

When  the  flowers  have  all  decayed  ; 
I  shall  see  his  toys  and  his  empty  chair, 

And  his  horse  he  used  to  ride. 
And  they  will  speak  with  a  silent  speech, 

Of  the  little  boy  that  died. 


We  shall  go  home  to  our  Father's  house  — 

To  our  Father's  house  in  the  skies, 
Where  the  hope  of  our  souls  shall  have  no  bligh' 

Our  love  no  broken  ties. 
We  shall  roam  on  the  banks  of  the  River  of  Peace 

And  bathe  in  its  blissful  tide, 
And  one  of  the  joys  of  our  heaven  shall  be 

The  little  boy  that  died. 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD.  101 


DEATH  OF  THE   FIRST-BORN. 


YOUNG  mother,  he  is  gone  ! 
His  dimpled  cheek  no  more  will  touch  thy  breast  j 

No  more  the  music-tone 

Float  from  his  lips,  to  thine  all  fondly  pressed } 
His  smile  and  happy  laugh  are  lost  to  thee  ; 
Earth  must  his  mother  and  his  pillow  be. 

His  was  the  morning  hour ; 
And  he  had  passed  in  beauty  from  the  day 

A  bud,  not  yet  a  flower, 

Torn,  in  its  sweetness,  from  the  parent  spray  ; 
The  death-wind  swept  him  to  his  soft  repose, 
As  frost,  in  spring-time,  blights  the  early  rose. 

Never  on  earth  again 
Will  his  rich  accents  charm  thy  listening  ear, 

Like  some  JEolian  strain 
Breathing  at  eventide  serene  and  clear  ; 
His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies. 


102  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

And  from  thy  yearning  heart, 
Whose  inmost  core  was  warm  with  love  for  him 

A  gladness  must  depart, 

And  those  kind  eyes  with  many  tears  be  dim  ; 
While  lonely  memories,  an  unceasing  train, 
Will  turn  the  raptures  of  the  past  to  pain. 

Yet,  mourner,  while  the  day 
Rolls  like  the  darkness  of  a  funeral  by, 

And  Hope  forbids  one  ray 
To  stream  across  the  grief-discolored  sky, 
There  breaks  upon  thy  sorrow's  evening  gloom 
A  trembling  lustre  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

'Tis  from  the  better  land  ! 

There,  bathed   in   radiance   that    around  then! 
springs, 

Thy  loved  one's  wings  expand  ; 
As  with  the  choiring  cherubim  he  sings, 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  God  can  see, 
Who  said,  on  earth,  to  children,  "  Come  to  me." 

Mother,  thy  child  is  blessed  ; 
And  though  his  presence  may  be  lost  to  thee, 

And  vacant  leave  thy  breast, 

And  missed,  a  sweet  load  from  thy  parent  knee  ; 

Though  tones  familiar  from  thine  ear  have  passed 

Thou'lt  meet  thy  first-born  with  his  Lord  at  last. 

Willis  Gaylord  Clark. 


POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD.  103 


A  PKAYER  IN  SICKNESS. 

SEND  down  thy  winged  angel,  God, 

Amid  tins  night  so  wild, 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 

And  breathe  upon  our  child. 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 

And  moans  within  her  sleep, 
Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 

And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is,  we  know  too  well  ; 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts 

Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love  —  we  watch  throughout  the  night, 

To  aid  when  need  may  be  ; 
We  hope  —  and  have  despaired  at  times  : 

But  now  we  turn  to  Thee  ! 

Send  down  thy  sweet-souled  angel,  God, 

Amid  the  darkness  wild, 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night, 

And  heal  our  gentle  child  ! 

Proctor. 


104  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE  YOUNG  GRAY  HEAD. 

"  PM  thinking  that  to-nig-ht,  if  not  before, 
There'll  be  wild  work.    Dost  hear  old  Chewtor 

roar  ? 

It's  brewing  up  down  westward  ;  and  look  there 
One  of  those  sea-gulls  !  —  ay,  there  goes  a  pair 
And  such  a  sudden  thaw  !    If  rain  conies  on, 
As  threats,  the  waters  will  be  out  anon. 
That  path  by  the  ford's  a  nasty  bit  of  way — 
Best  let  the  young  ones  bide  from  school  to-day.' 

The  children  themselves  join  in  this  request 
but  the  mother  resolves  that  they  should  set  ou' 
—  the  two  girls,  Lizzy  and  Jenny,  the  one  fiv< 
and  the  other  seven.  As  the  dame's  will  wai 
law,  so, 

One  last  fond  kiss  — 

"  God  bless  iny  little  maids  '.  "  the  father  said  ; 
And  cheerily  went  his  way  to  win  their  bread. 

Prepared  for  their  journey,  they  depart  witl 
the  mother's  admonitions  to  the  elder,  — 

"  Now,  mind  and  bring 
Jenny  safe  home,"  the  mother  said.    "  Don' 

stay 
To  pull  a  bough  or  berry  by  the  way ; 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  105 

And  when  you  come  to  cross  the  ford,  hold  fast 

Your  little  sister's  hand  till  you're  quite  past  — 

That  plank's  so  crazy,  and  so  slippery, 

If  not  overflowed,  the  stepping  stones  will  be. 

But  you're  good  children  —  steady  as  old  folk  ; 

I'd  trust  ye  any  where."    Then  Lizzy's  cloak 

(A  good  gray  duffle)  lovingly  she  tied, 

And  ample  little  Jenny's  lack  supplied 

With  her  own  warmest  shawl.   "  Be  sure,"  said 

she, 

"  To  wrap  it  round,  and  knot  it  carefully 
(Like  this)  when  you  come  home  — just  leaving 

free 

One  hand  to  hold  by.   Now,  make  haste  away  — 
Good  will  to  school,  and  then  good  right  to 

play." 


The  mother  watched  them  as  they  went  down 
the  lane,  overburdened  with  something  like  a  fore 
boding  of  evil  which  she  strove  to  overcome  ;  but 
could  not  during  the  day  quite  bear  up  against 
her  own  thoughts,  more  especially  as  the  threat 
ened  storm  did  at  length  truly  set  in.  His  labor 
done,  the  husband  makes  his  three  miles  way 
homeward,  until  his  cottage  coming  into  view,  all 
its  pleasant  associations  of  spring,  summer,  and 
autumn,  with  its  thousand  family  delights,  rush 
on  his  heart : 


100  POEMS    OF    CHILD  HOOD. 


There  was  a  treasure  hidden  in  his  hat  — 

A  plaything1  for  his  young-  ones.    He  had  found 

A  dormouse  nest ;  the  living  ball  coiled  round 

For  its  long  winter  sleep  ;  and  all  his  thought, 

As  he  trudged  stoutly  homeward,  was  of  noughl 

But  the  glad  wonderment  in  Jenny's  eyes, 

And  graver  Lizzy's  quieter  surprise, 

When  he  should  yield,  by  guess,  and  kiss,  and 

prayer, 
Hard  won,  the  frozen  captive  to  their  care. 

Out  rushes  his  fondling  dog  Tinker,  but  no  lit 
tle  faces  greet  him  as  wont  at  the  threshold  ;  and 
to  his  hurried  question,  "  Are  they  come  ? "  — 
'twas  "  No." 

To  throw  his  tools  down,  hastily  unhook 
The  old  cracked  lantern  from  its  dusty  nook, 
And  while  he  lit  it,  speak  a  cheering  word 
That  almost   choked   him,  and   was    saarcely 

heard, 

Was  but  a  moment's  act ;  and  he  was  gone 
To  where  a  fearful  foresight  led  him  on. 

A  neighbor  accompanies  him,  and  they  strike 
into  the  track  which  the  children  should  have 
taken  in  their  way  back  — now  calling  aloud  on 
them  through  the  pitchy  darkness,  and  now,  by 
the  lantern-light,  scrutinizing  "  thicket,  hole,  and 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  107 

nook,"  till  the  dog1,  brushing  past  them  with  a 
bark,  shows  them  that  he  was  on  their  track : 

"  Hold  the  light 

Low  down  —  he's  making  for  the  water.   Hark  ! 
I  know  that  whine  —  the  old  dog's  found  them, 

Mark." 

So  speaking,  breathlessly  he  hurried  on 
Toward  the  old  crazy  foot-bridge.   It  was  gone  ! 
And  all  his  dull  contracted  light  could  show 
Was  the  black  void,  and  dark  swollen  stream 

below. 

"  Yet  there's  life  somewhere  —  more  than  Tin 
ker's  whine  "  — 
"  That's  sure,"  said  Mark.    "  So,  let  the  lantern 

shine 
Down  yonder.    There's  the  dog  —  and  hark !  " 

«  O  dear  t  " 

And  a  low  sob  came  faintly  on  the  ear, 
Mocked  by  the  sobbing  gust.    Down,  quick  as 

thought, 
Into   the    stream   leaped  Ambrose,  where   he 

caught 

Fast  hold  of  something — a  dark  huddled  heap  — 
Half  in  the  water,  where  'twas  scarce  knee  deep 
For  a  tall  man  ;  and  half  above  it,  propped 
By  some  old  ragged  side-piles  that  had  stopped 
Endways  the  broken  plank  when  it  gave  way 
With  the  two  little  ones  that  luckless  day  '. 


108  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

"  My  babes !  my  lambkins ! "  was  the  father's 

cry — 

One  little  voice  made  answer,  "  Here  am  I !  " 
'Twas  Lizzy's.    There  she  crouched,  with  face 

as  white, 

More  ghastly,  by  the  flickering  lantern-light, 
Than  sheeted  corpse.  The  pale,  blue  lips  drawn 

tight, 

Wide  parted,  showing  all  the  pearly  teeth, 
And  eyes  on  some  dark  object  underneath, 
Washed  by  the  turbid  water,  fixed  like  stone  — 
One  arm  and   hand   stretched  out,  and   rigid 

grown, 
Grasping,  as  in  the  death-gripe,  Jenny's  frock. 

There  she  lay  drowned 

They  lifted  her  from  out  her  watery  bed  — 
Its  covering  gone,  the  lovely  little  head 
Hung  like  a  broken  snow-drop,  all  aside, 
And  one  small  hand.    The  mother's  shawl  was 

tied, 

Leaving  that  free  about  the  child's  small  form, 
As  was  her  last  injunction  —  "  fast  and  warm  j  " 
Too  well  obeyed  —  too  fast !    A  fatal  hold, 
Affording  to  the  scrag,  by  a  thick  fold 
That  caught  and  pinned  her  to  the  river's  bed  : 
While  through  the  reckless  water  overhead 
Her  life-breath  bubbled  up. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  109 

I  pass  over  the  cruel  self-upbr aiding s  of  her 
mother  for  — 

"  She  might  have  lived, 
Struggling-  like  Lizzie,"  was  the  thought  that 

rived 
The  wretched  mother's  heart,  when  she  knew 

all, 
"  But  for  my  foolishness  about  that  shawl "  — 

a  torture  aggravated  by  the  tones  of  the  surviving 
child,  who  half  deliriously  kept  on  ejaculating— 

"  Who  says  I  forgot  ? 
Mother  !  indeed,  indeed  I  kept  fast  hold ; 
And  tied  the  shawl  quite  close  — she  can't  be 

cold  — 
But  she  won't  move  —  we  slept  —  I  don't  know 

how  — 

But  I  held  on  —  and  I'm  so  weary  now  — 
And  it's  so  dark  and  cold !  —  O  dear !  O  dear !  — 
And  she  won't  move  — if  daddy  was  but  here  I  " 

From  their  despair  for  the  lost,  the  poor  par 
ents  turned  to  their  almost  forlorn  hope  in  the 
living,  as  — 

All  night  long  from  side  to  side  she  turned, 
Piteously  plaining  like  a  wounded  dove, 
With  now  and  then  the  murmur,  "  She  won't 
move." 


110  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

And,  lo  !  when  morning,  as  in  mockery,  bright 
Shone  on  that   pillow  —  passing   strange   the 

sight  — 
The  young  head's  raven  hair  was  streaked  with 

white ! 

Caroline  Anne  Souther. 


TO  A  CHILD 

EMBRACING  HIS  MOTHER. 

LOVE  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again,  — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 

Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 

And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee,  — 
Hereafter  thou  mayst  shudder  sighs 

To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes  ! 


TOEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  Ill 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told, — 

Hereafter  thou  mayst  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow  ! 

O,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 

Although  it  be  not  silver-gray, — 
Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 

May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
O,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 

That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer,  — 
For  thou  mayst  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


112  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


OVER  THE  WAY. 

GONE  in  her  childish  purity 

Out  from  her  golden  day  ; 
Fading  away  in  the  light  so  sweet, 
Where  the  silver  stars  and  the  sunbeams  meet, 
Paving  a  path  for  her  silent  feet, 

Over  the  silent  way. 

Over  her  bosom  tenderly 
The  pearl-white  hands  are  pressed  ; 
The  lashes  lie  on  her  cheeks  so  thin  — 
Where  the  softest  blush  of  the  rose  hath  been  — 
Shutting  the  blue  of  her  eyes  within 
The  pure  lids  closed  in  rest. 

Over  the  sweet  brow  lovingly 

Twineth  her  sunny  hair  ; 
She  was  so  fragile  that  Love  sent  down 
From  his  heavenly  gems  that  soft  bright  crown, 
To  shade  her  brow  with  its  waves  so  brown, 

Light  as  the  dimpling  air. 

Gone  to  sleep  with  the  tender  smile 

Froze  on  her  silent  lips 
By  the  farewell  kiss  of  her  dewy  breath, 
Cold  in  the  clasp  of  her  angel  Death  — 
Like  the  last  fair  bud  of  a  fading  wreath, 

Whose  bloom  the  white  frost  nips. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  113 

Robin  —  hushed  in  your  downy  bed 

Over  the  swinging1  boug'h  — 
Do  you  miss  her  voice  from  your  glad  duet, 
"When  the  dew  in  the  heart  of  the  rose  is  set, 
Till  its  velvet  lips  with  the  essence  wet 

In  orient  crimson  giow  ? 


Rosebud  under  your  shady  leaf — 

Hid  from  the  sunny  day  — 
Do  you  miss  the  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright, 
Whose  blue  was  heaven  in  your  timid  sight? 
It  is  beaming  now  in  the  world  of  light, 

Over  the  starry  way. 


Hearts  —  where  the  darling's  head  hath  lain, 
Held  by  love's  shining  ray  — 
Do  you  know  that  the  touch  of  her  gentle  hand 
Doth  brighten  the  harp  in  the  unknown  land  ? 
O,  she  waits  for  us  with  the  angel  band 
Over  the  starry  way. 

E.  Conwell  Smith. 
8 


114  POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY'S   TALE. 

STAY,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale ! 
Ah !  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, 

'Tis  Want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale. 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy ; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy. 

Poor,  foolish  child !  how  pleased  was  I 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 
Along-  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

And  see  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought ; 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy, 
For  with  my  father's  life  'twas  bought, 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy. 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud  j 

My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears ; 
"  Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  "  still  cried  the  crowd ; 

My  mother  answered  with  her  tears. 
"  Why  are  you  crying  thus,"  said  I, 

"  While  others  laugh  and  shout  with  joy  ? ' 
She  kissed  me— and  with  such  a  sigh ! 

She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  115 

"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ?  "  I  cried, 

As  in  her  face  I  looked,  and  smiled ; 
My  mother  through  her  tears  replied, 

"  You'll  know  too  soon,  ill-fated  child  !  " 
And  now  they've  tolled  my  mother's  knell, 

And  I'm  no  more  a  parent's  joy  j 
O,  lady,  I  have  learned  too  well 

What  'tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 


O,  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide  — 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread ; 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep !  ha  !  this  to  me ! 

You'll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents !  look,  and  see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

Amelia  Opie. 


116  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


A  JUVENILE   ACTOR. 

Ben  Jonson  has  some  pleasing  lines  on  a  precocious  lad 
in  his  time,  who  seems  to  have  been  a  wonderful  actor  of 
"old  men  "  characters.  He  died  in  his  thirteenth  year,  and 
the  poet  thus  eulogizes  him:  — 

WEEP  with  me,  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story  ; 
And  know  for  whom  a  tear  you  shod 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 

'Twas  a  child  that  did  so  thrive 

In  grace  and  feature, 
That  heaven  and  nature  seemed  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 

Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen, 

When  fates  turned  cruel ; 
Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel. 

And  did  act,  what  noAV  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As  sooth  the  Parca3  thought  him  one, 

He  played  so  truly. 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  117 


TO  A  CHILD  BLOWING  BUBBLES. 

THRICE  happy  elf!  what  radiant  dreams  are  thine, 
As   thus  thou   bidd'st  thine  air-born  bubbles 
soar ; — 

Who  would  not  Wisdom's  choicest  gifts  resign 
To  be,  like  thee,  a  careless  child  once  more ;  — 

To  share  thy  simple  sports  and  sinless  glee ; 

Thy  breathless  wonder,  thy  unfeigned  delight, 
As,  one  by  one,  those  sun-touched  glories  flee, 

In  swift  succession,  from  thy  straining  sight  j  — 

To  feel  a  power  within  himself  to  make, 
Like  thee,  a  rainbow  wheresoe'er  he  goes ; 

To  dream  of  sunshine,  and  like  thee,  to  wake 
To  brighter  visions  from  his  charmed  repose  ;  — 

Who  would  not  give  his  all  of  worldly  lore, 
The  hard-earned  fruits  of  many  a  toil  and  care, 

Might  he  but  thus  the  faded  past  restore, 
Thy  guileless  thoughts  and  blissful  ignorance 
share  ? 

Yet  life  hath  bubbles,  too,  that  soothe  a  while 
The  sterner  dreams  of  man's  maturer  years  ; 


118  POEMS  OF   CHILDHOOD. 

Love,  Friendship,  Fortune,  Fame,  by  turns  be 
guile, 
But  melt,  'neath  Truth's  Ithuriel  touch,  to  tears. 

Thrice  happy  child,  a  brighter  lot  is  thine ! 

What  new  illusion  e'er  can  match  the  first  ? 
We  mourn  to  see  each  cherished  hope  decline  ; 

Thy  mirth  is  loudest  when  thy  bubbles  burst. 

Alaric  Watts. 


THE  BLIND  CHILD. 

WHERE'S  the  blind  child  so  admirably  fair, 
With  guileless  dimples,  and  with  flaxen  hair 
That  waves  in  every  breeze  ?    He's  often  seen 
Beyond  yon  cottage  wall,  or  on  the  green 
With  others,  matched  in  spirit  and  in  size  — 
Health  in  their  cheeks  and  rapture  in  their  eyes. 
That  full  expanse  of  voice,  to  children  dear, 
Soul  of  their  sports,  is  duly  cherished  here. 
And  hark  !  that  laugh  is  his  —  that  jovial  cry— 
He  hears  the  ball  and  trundling  hoop  brush  by, 
And  runs  the  giddy  course  with  all  his  might  — 
A  very  child  in  every  thing  but  sight  — 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  119 

With  circumscribed,  but  not  abated  powers, 
Play  the  great  object  of  his  infant  hours. 
In  many  a  game  he  takes  a  noisy  part, 
And  shoNvs  the  native  gladness  of  his  heart ; 
But  soon  he  hears,  on  pleasure  all  intent, 
The  new  suggestion,  and  the  quick  assent ; 
The  grove  invites  ;  delight  thrills  every  breast 
To  leap  the  ditch,  and  seek  the  downy  nest. 
Away  they  start,  leave  balls  and  hoops  behind, 
And  one  companion  leave  —  the  boy  is  blind! 
His  fancy  paints  their  distant  paths  so  gay, 
That  childish  fortitude  a  while  gives  way  ; 
He  feels  his  dreadful  loss  —  yet  short  the  pain  — 
Soon  he  resumes  his  cheerfulness  again. 
Pondering  how  best  his  moments  to  employ, 
He  sings  his  little  songs  of  nameless  joy, 
Creeps  on  the  warm  green  turf  for  many  an  hour, 
And  plucks,  by  chance,  the  white  and  yellow 

flower  -, 

Smoothing  their  stems,  while  resting  on  his  knees, 
He  binds  a  nosegay  which  he  never  sees  ; 
Along  the  homeward  path  then  feels  his  way. 

Eloomfield. 


120  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE  LITTLE    PILGRIM. 


I  SAW  a  little  pilgrim  come 
A  sudden  to  that  river, 

At  whose  dark  brink  bold  lips  grow  dumb, 
And  stout  hearts  quail  and  quiver,— 
The  marge  of  Death's  cold  river. 

Down  to  the  stream  the  little  maid 
Was  led  by  white-robed  angels  j 

Around  her  golden  harps  they  played, 
And  sung  those  sweet  evangels 
Sung  only  by  the  angels. 

Five  days  upon  the  brink  she  lay 

Of  that  appalling  river ; 
And  Death  shot  arrows  every  day 

From  his  insatiate  quiver, 

At  her,  beside  the  river. 

O  !  but  I  stood  amazed  to  hear 
Her  wan  lips  sweetly  saying, 

"  Don't  pray  to  keep  me,  mamma,  dear, 
I  must  not  here  be  staying." 
Such  words  of  wonder  saying ! 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  121 

"  Mamma,  I  do  not  fear  to  die, 

My  sins  are  all  forgiven ; 
And  shining  angels,  hovering  nigh, 

Will  bear  my  soul  to  heaven  — 

By  Jesus  quite  forgiven." 

And  then  from  her  fond  mother's  breast 

She  plunged  into  that  river ; 
Her  fluttering  pulses  sunk  to  rest, 

Her  heart  was  still  forever, 

And  her  soul  beyond  the  river. 

Now,  when  my  children  wait  to  hear 

Some  tender,  touching  story, 
I  tell  them  how,  without  a  fear, 

She  died,  and  went  to  glory  — 

And  tears  flow  with  the  story. 

Rev.  C.  W.Richards. 


122  POEMS    OF    CHILD  HOOD. 


CASA  WAPPY. 

Casa  Wappy  was  the  self-conferred  pet  name  of  an  infant 
son  of  the  poet,  snatched  away  after  a  very  brief  illness. 

AND  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond,  dear  boy  — 
The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

Where  life  is  joy  ? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth, 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth  ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die ; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee  ; 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathomed  agony, 

Casa  Wappy  ! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight, 

To  bless  us  given  ; 
Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight  ; 

A  type  of  heaven  ! 


POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD.  123 

So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a  part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother's  heart, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Thy  bright  brief  day  knew  no  decline  — 

'Twas  cloudless  joy  5 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine, 

Beloved  boy  ! 

This  morn  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay, 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay, 
And  ere  a  third  shone  clay  was  clay, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 

Earth's  undefiled ; 
Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 

Our  dear,  sweet  child  ! 
Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree  : 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 


Do  what  I  may,  go  where  I  will, 

Thou  meet'st  my  sight ; 
There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still, 

A  form  of  light  1 


t  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek  — 
I  see  thee  smile,  I  hear  thee  speak — 
Till,  O  !  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 
Casa  Wappy ! 


Methinks  thou  smilest  before  me  now, 

With  glance  of  stealth ; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow, 

In  buoyant  health ; 
I  see  thine  eyes'  deep  violet  light, 
Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnationed  bright, 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow, 
Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball ; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thy  empty  chair, 
Thy  playthings  idly  scattered  there, 
But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Even  to  the  last,  thy  very  word  — 

To  glad,  to  grieve  — 
Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird, 

On  summer's  eve  j 


POEMS    OF   CHILDHOOD.  125 

In  outward  beauty  undecayed, 
Death  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 
And  like  the  rainbow  thou  didst  fade, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

We  mourn  for  thee  when  blind,  blank  night 

The  chamber  fills  ; 
We  pine  for  thee  when  morn's  first  light 

Keddens  the  hills  ; 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
All,  to  the  wall-flower  and  wild  pea, 
Are  changed  —  we   saw  the  world  through 
thee, 

Casa  Wappy '. 

And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may  gleam, 

Of  casual  mirth, 
It  doth  not  own,  whate'er  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth ; 

We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair  ; 
We  miss  thee  at  our  evening  prayer  ; 
All  day  we  miss  thee,  every  where, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life's  spring  bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below  — 

The  silent  tomb  j 


»  POEMS    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
The  cuckoo,  and  "  the  busy  bee," 
Return  —  but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Yet,  'tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 
That  heaven  is  God's,  and  thou  art  there 

With  him  in  joy  : 

There,  past  are  Death,  and  all  its  woes  ; 
There  Beauty's  stream  forever  flows, 
And  Pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Farewell,  then,  — for  a  while,  farewell, — 

Pride  of  my  heart ! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell 

Thus  torn  apart : 

Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee  ; 
And,  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may  be, 
Beyond  the  grave  I'll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

D.  AL  Moir. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

(FOR  DAYS  OF  GLADNESS.) 

PAGE 

Ah,  little  ranting  Johnny 15 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth 27 

A  child's  smile  —  nothing  more 52 

Blessings  on  the  little  man 35 

Beautiful  the  children's  faces 54 

Behold,  my  lords 12 

Blest  hour  of  childhood;  there,  and  there  aloue  .  3 

Childhood,  happiest  stage  of  life 51 

Cora's  hand  is  dimpled 33 

Come  here,  my  bairnie 5 

Come  back,  come  back  together 41 

Darling  little  Ellie 23 

Dear  child  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame 31 

Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill 13 

Down  the  dimpled  greensward  dancing 20 

Do  not  mind  my  crying,  papa 61 

Fold  thy  little  hands  in  prayer 45 

In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse  ....  53 

I  wish  I  were  a  picture 7 

Mother,  watch  the  little  feet 44 

O,  thou  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought  ...  25 

Our  wean's  the  most  wonderfu'  wean  I  e'er  saw   .  57 

So  young  you  cannot  pleasure  take 59 

Sighing  I  see  yon  little  troop  at  play 8 

Sporting  through  the  forest  wild 4 

Sport  on,  sport  on 9 

There's  a  little  girl  that  meets  me 49 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf 10 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development 34 

Under  my  window 19 

(127) 


128  INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 

When  the  cornfields  and  meadows 47 

Whence  came  this  little  phantom o9 

We  stood  beside  the  window,  still 21 

Yes,  I  do  love  thee  well,  my  child 26 

(FOR  DAYS  OF  SADNESS.) 

A  simple  child,  dear  brother  Jim 65 

A  common  light-blue  muslin  frock 85 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home  ....  122 

Come  closer,  closer,  dear  mamma 86 

Gone  in  her  childish  purity 112 

I  am  all  alone  in  my  chamber  now 99 

I  cannot  make  him  dead 68 

In  my  heart  there  liveth  a  picture 97 

I'm  thinking  that  to-night,  if  not  before 1^-4 

I  saw  a  little  pilgrim  come 120 

It  is  his  birthday  —  ask  me  not 72 

Little  Jane  came  dancing 76 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one 110 

No  bitter  tears  for  thee  be  shed 79 

No  mother's  eye  beside  thee  wakes  to  night    ...  88 

0,  take  me  home,  mother 78 

She  bounded  o'er  the  graves 89 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee (.  5 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake 114 

Send  down  thy  winged  angel,  God 103 

She  sleeps;  but  the  soft  breath 74 

Through  the  blue  and  frosty  heavens 81 

Thrice  happj"  elf,  what  radiant  dreams  are  thine  .  117 

Thy  memory  as  a  spell 70 

Three  little  graves 93 

Weep  with  me.  all  you  that  read 116 

Where's  the  blind  child  so  admirably  fair   ....  118 

Why  vrouldst  thou  leave  me,  0,  gentle  child  ...  91 

Young  mother,  he  is  gone 101 


ILLUSTRATED 

POETIC   GEMS. 

DIAMOND   EDITION. 
— *-**+• 

POEMS  OF  INFANCY. 
POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 
POEMS  OF  YOUTH. 
POEMS  OF  WOMANHOOD. 
POEMS  OF  MANHOOD. 
POEMS  OF  OLD  AGE. 

128  pages  each. 
Sold  separately,  or  in  sets,  by  all  Booksellers. 

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Sent  by  mail,  post  paid,  on  receipt  of  the  price, 
by  the  Publisher. 

Address,  GEORGE  COOLTDGE,  13  TRE- 
MONT  Row,  BOSTON. 


NATIONAL  MONUMENT  to  the  FOREFATHERS. 

Now  erecting  at  Plymouth,  by  the  Pilgrim  Society. 


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BURNETT'S  tiETCOAINE, 

&jT  A  compound  of  Cocoa-nut  Oil,  &c.,  for 
dressing-  the  Hair.  For  efficacy  and  agreeable- 
ness,  it  is  without  an  equal. 

It  prevents  the  hair  from  falling  off. 

It  promotes  its  healthy,  vigorous  growth. 

It  is  not  greasy  or  sticky. 

It  leares  no  disagreeable  odor. 

It  softens  the  hair  when  hard  and  dry. 

It  soothes  the  irritated  scalp  skin. 

It  affords  the  richest  lustre. 

It  remains  longest  in  effect: 

It  costs  fifty  cents  for  a  half -pint  bottle. 

LOSS  OF  HAIR. 

BOSTOX,  July  19,  1837. 
Messrs.  JOSEPH  BURXETT  &  Co. 

I  cannot  refuse  to  state  the  salutary  effect,  in  my  own 
aggravated  case,  of  your  excellent  Hair  Oil,  (Cocoaine.j 

For  many  months  my  hair  had  been  falling  off,  until  I 
was  fearful  of  losing  it  entirely.  The  skin  upon  my  head 
became  gradually  more  and  more  inflamed,  so  that  I 
could  not  touch  it  without  pain.  This  irritated  condition 
I  attributed  to  the  use  of  various  advertised  hair  washes. 
which  I  have  since  been  told  contain  campheno  spirit. 

By  the  advice  of  my  physician,  to  whom  vou  hnd 
shown  your  process  of  purifying  the  Oil,  I  commenced 
its  use  the  last  week  in  Juire.  The  first  application  al 
layed  the  itching  and  irritation:  in  three  or  four  days 
the  redness  and  tenderness  disappeared  —  the  hair  ceased 
to  fall,  and  I  have  now  a  thick  growth  of  new  hair.  I 
trust  that  others,  similarly  afflicted,  will  be  induced  to 
try  the  same  remedy.  Yours  very  truly, 

SUSAN  R.  POPE. 

BURNETT'S  COCOAINE. 

6f"  A  single  application  renders  the  hair  (no  matter 
how  stiff  and  dry,)  soft  and  glossy  for  several  days.  It 
is  conceded  by  all  who  have  used  it,  to  be  the  best  and 
cheapest  H«ir  Drifting  in  the.  world. 

Prepared  by  Joseph  Burnett  &  Co.,  Boston,  and  for 
sale  by  dealers  generally,  at  50  cents  a  bottle. 


